


Behind Closed Doors

by hunenka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Canon Compliant, Character Death, First Time, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Missing Scenes, POV Alternating, Permanent Injury, Post-Series, Pre-Series, Teenchesters, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:58:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/pseuds/hunenka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These motel rooms are dull, anonymous and bleak, but behind their closed doors, a story of two brothers unfolds. This isn’t where Sam and Dean fight monsters and save the world. This is where they wash off the sweat and dirt from digging graves, where they brush their teeth, where they tend to each other’s wounds, where they fall into exhausted sleep. This is where they don’t have to be heroes; this is where they can be human.<br/><i>From pre-series to post-series. Written in November 2013, so AU after S09E05.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind Closed Doors

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to make the dates as accurate as I could, based on the Supernatural timelines I found on [the Supernatural Wiki](http://www.supernaturalwiki.com//).
> 
> Concerning the two “extra years” (between seasons 5 and 6 and between seasons 7 and 8), I dealt with them the same way as the writers of the show – I ignored them. To make things clearer with an example: Dean goes to Purgatory in May 2012 and comes back one year later, but since I didn’t want to have to move everything forward one year in my fic, the year is still 2012.

**November 3, 1983**

Sammy is crying.

Dean doesn’t like it when Sammy cries. It makes him want to cry, too. But he already cried yesterday, when the big fire came and when Dean asked for Mommy and Daddy said Mommy wasn’t here right now.

Also, Dean misses his room. He doesn’t like this one at all, but Daddy said they needed a place to stay for now, and so they’re in a _motel_. Dean’s never even heard that word before.

But that’s not important now. The important thing is that Sammy’s still crying and Daddy doesn’t know how to calm him down.

Dean gets out of the bed and pads over to the other one, where Daddy’s cradling Sammy in his arms, whispering softly. “Daddy! Dad!” He tugs at Daddy’s sleeve to bring attention to himself. “Sammy’s tummy hurts, can’t you tell?”

Daddy looks down at him, looking surprised. His eyes are red as if he’d been crying, but that’s nonsense, because Daddy doesn’t cry. “Dean?”

“Sammy’s tummy hurts,” he repeats, louder this time. Didn’t Daddy hear him? “He’s making the sounds he always does when it hurts.”

“Oh. Okay… what should I do?” Daddy sounds uncertain, but that’s nonsense, too.

“You gotta burp him,” Dean explains, and when Daddy still seems confused, Dean reaches out with his hands. “Give him to me.”

Reluctantly, Daddy gives Sammy to Dean, who holds the baby carefully, making sure Sammy’s chin is resting on Dean’s shoulder. He starts patting Sammy’s back gently, like Mommy does it after she feeds him. And there! Sammy burps and stops crying.

Dean looks up at Dad victoriously. “See? I can take care of Sammy!”

Daddy gives him a smile. “I know you do, champ.”

But now Daddy is crying instead – like, really crying, with tears running down his face and all – and Dean doesn’t know how to fix that.

 

 

**July 1984**

Tom is chasing after Jerry on the TV. The chase is exciting but Dean only pays attention to it partly because there’s something more interesting going on in the room. Much more interesting.

Gurgling softly, Sammy wraps his tiny fingers around one leg of the chair that stands by the table and holding onto it for support, he pulls himself to wobbly feet. Then he laughs, starts waving his hands happily and flops back down onto the carpet. He gets up again quickly though, intent on standing up.

Sammy’s been doing that a lot lately, holding onto furniture or the people around him, leaning onto them and standing, sometimes even taking a few steps when somebody holds him by the hand.

Dean decides to ignore the cartoon completely, gets off the bed and pads over the room to where Sammy is swaying on his feet again. He stops about three steps away from the toddler and kneels on the ground so he can look his brother in the face. “Come on, Sammy,” he holds out his arms towards him.

“Deedee!” Sammy sings out and stamps one fuzzy socked foot against the floor happily. ‘Deedee’ was the first word Sammy spoke and Dean remembers the terror he felt when he heard that word, thinking _He wants to see Daddy but Daddy’s not here, what should I do_? Of course, now he knows that ‘Deedee’ actually means ‘Dean’.

Dean smiles at his brother and reaches out with his right hand, extends one finger and Sammy immediately wraps his small hand around it, the grip surprisingly tight. “Yeah, Sammy,” Dean tells him. “Come here.”

“Deedee,” Sammy lets go of the chair and holding onto Dean’s finger, he takes a step forward, then another, and soon he’s right in front of Dean, grinning in his face. “Deedee!”

“Right, you deserve a reward,” Dean wraps his arms around his little brother, reveling in the feel of that small, warm body, knowing that Sammy is alright.

Maybe a bit too much alright, he thinks when Sammy starts wriggling until he slips free and then tries shoving into Dean, laughing when Dean goes with it like usually and pretends to fall down, ending up sprawled on the carpet.

“Bump!” Sammy declares and throws himself onto Dean, landing on top of him with another laughing fit. “Deedee bump!”

Barely avoiding having Sammy’s finger in the eye, Dean chuckles. “Wait till you’re older. Won’t let you win then.”

Sammy doesn’t seem to be very concerned by that. He nuzzles up against Dean, face buried in the crook of Dean’s neck, and drools all over the collar of his shirt.

Dean lets him get away with it though, like he always does. He loves having little Sammy so close. It’s like holding a bag of wriggling, squirming kittens, only much nicer.

“Alright,” he says finally and sits up with some difficulty as he tries to get the baby off him. “Enough cuddling. Try walking again.”

He helps Sammy stand up, steadying him and then letting go of him, taking a few steps back to create some distance between them. Again, he reaches out with his hands, but he doesn’t let Sammy get hold of him this time, staying just out of the little kid’s reach. “Come here, Sammy. Come here.”

“Deedee?” Sammy looks a bit confused now, like he doesn’t understand why Dean wants him to walk on his own.

“You gotta learn to do it without help,” Dean explains. “Can’t go walking ‘round holding onto stuff all the time.” He smiles at his brother encouragingly. “I know you can do it.”

Hesitantly, Samy makes a step, pauses, and then makes another.

“That’s right,” Dean praises him and also takes a step back, keeping some distance between them. “One more.”

Sammy whines discontentedly, chubby face crumpling, but he keeps walking, because he’s a brave kid. He looks a bit funny, walking like that old lady Dean saw last week when Daddy took him and Sammy to the park, but he’s moving forward on his two feet without help, and that’s what’s important. Dad’s going to be really proud and happy when he hears about it, too.

Two more steps and Sammy cries out, startled as his legs give out from under him, but before he can actually fall on his face, Dean is there to catch him, pulling him into a tight hug. He keeps whispering “You did good, I’m proud of you,” into his ear as he rocks him until Sammy calms down in his arms.

“You don’t have to worry,” Dean promises his brother as he clutches onto him. “I’ll never let you fall. I’ll always catch you.”

 

 

**January 1992**

“Sammy? What’s wrong?” Dean’s voice is all fear and worry as he rushes from the door to the bed where Sam’s currently curled up, quickly wiping away his tears. Not that he was crying, mind you, something just got into his eye.

“Nothing,” Sam mumbles unconvincingly and doesn’t move to look at his brother, still facing the wall. He hasn’t counted on Dean coming back so soon. Dean wasn’t supposed to see this. “Nothing’s wrong.”

The bed dips behind him and one hand, still cold from the outside winter air, is gently placed on Sam’s shoulder. “Then why are you wailing like a girl? You waitin’ for a knight in shining armor to come sweep you in his arms and save you or what?”

Sam kicks back blindly, his heel connecting with the hard bone of Dean’s shin. “I hate you.”

“Sure you do,” comes the amused and clearly untroubled reply, like Dean doesn’t believe him at all. Then Dean’s hand is gone from Sam’s shoulder, but before Sam can decide whether he misses the touch or not, Dean’s fingers are running through Sam’s hair, rubbing and scratching slightly.

Sam likes to have his hair rubbed, although he’d never admit that out loud, because big boys don’t like things like that. But Dean knows, and he always does it when Sam’s distressed or upset, and it calms Sam down like nothing else does, even though he’s embarrassed about it later.

He relaxes into his brother’s touch.

“So, spill. What made you feel so bad today?” Dean’s tone is light, but there’s real concern behind those words. “You can tell me, I’m not gonna laugh.”

And Sam knows Dean wouldn’t make fun of him if he confided in him. He makes fun of Sam about silly things like Sam’s hair or the way he eats his breakfast, but never about something important.

But still, there are some things Sam can’t tell Dean. Things like that sometimes, he wishes he had a different family, a real one, with a mom who’s alive and a dad who isn’t always gone, with a house and friends to play with when school’s over. A normal, happy life.

“It’s just the boys at the new school,” he says instead, because if he doesn’t say something Dean will just keep digging until Sam spills his guts, and then Dean will feel bad for not being able to help. “They won’t even talk to me.”

“That’s cause they’re stupid.” Yeah, sometimes Dean’s arguments are really, really lame. “You’re too awesome for them.”

“’M not awesome at all,” Sam can’t help himself, the words just come out without his volition.

“You’re totally awesome,” Dean counters. “Hey, sit up. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Sam obeys, finally turning to look at his brother’s freckled face, meeting those big green eyes.

“Sam, I know it’s hard for you,” Dean waves one hand around the motel room, bleak and generic, like a hundred others they’ve stayed in. “The moving around, having no friends and all. But you know you’re not alone, right? There’s Dad, and he–“

“–loves me, I know,” Sam finishes, nodding tiredly. Rationally, he knows Dad loves him, but it’s really hard to feel that when Dad’s always gone, leaving them behind.

Dean gives him a smile and ruffles his hair. Sam swats his hand away and tries to fix the mess Dean’s made. “And there’s always me, right?”

Sam doesn’t try to hold back his smile. “Yeah. I know.” Because he does know. Dean’s the only thing in Sam’s life that’s a constant, absolute and reliable, and he’s grateful for that, more than words could ever express.

Dean’s fingers are on his chin, forcing Sam to meet his eyes once more. Dean’s expression is deadly serious now. “You’ll always have me, Sammy. That’s a promise.” Then, in a heartbeat, his expression lightens and his eyes sparkle mischievously. “And if those douchebags at school try to give you a hard time, just tell me and I’ll beat them up.”

Knowing his brother, Sam is sure Dean means what he says literally, so he hastens to say, “Don’t do that, please.”

“Okay, you beat them up yourself,” Dean agrees easily, and Sam doesn’t bother correcting him. “Just remember, if something goes wrong, I’mma take care of you, okay? Nothing to worry about.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

With a chuckle, Dean ruffles Sam’s hair again, probably on purpose, and gets up from the bed. He unzips his duffel bag and takes out his Colt and hunting knife, handling the weapons with an ease and practice not expected of someone who’s only thirteen years old. It’s what he always does when he needs to compose himself – he cleans his weapons or trains.

Dean surely doesn’t even realize that’s not what normal teenagers do, and that’s one of the things that worries Sam the most, but he keeps that to himself.

 

 

**June 1997**

The door opens and Sam saunters in, throwing his bag on the floor carelessly before sitting on his bed, staring at the floor. His face is partially obscured from Dean’s view by his hair – and something should really, really be done about that – but Dean can tell something’s troubling his brother.

“What crawled up your ass and died?” He asks, keeping his voice disinterested because Sam might take a niff otherwise. Oh, the joys of dealing with a teenage boy.

“Nothing,” comes the expectable reply, muttered morosely.

Yeah, right. Nothing’s wrong, sure. Dean doesn’t press the matter though, knowing that if he did, Sam would only become more withdrawn and never confide in his brother.

So instead, he goes back to the half-finished hand grenade he’s got laid out on the table. This baby is an experiment Dean’s been working on for quite some time now, designed especially for taking out threats of the supernatural kind. Dad’s gonna be thrilled about this when he sees it.

It might be close to half an hour before Sam finally breaks and starts talking. “Dean?”

“Yeah?” He doesn’t look up from his work. “What’s up, kid?”

“Not a kid.”

Ah, fuck. Dean kicks himself mentally for using that word. It always pisses Sam off. “Sorry.”

Another good fifteen minutes pass before Sam speaks again. “How do I make a girl like me?”

Oh, so _that’s_ what this is about, a chick! “What girl? That Jenny or Janice…?”

“Jeanie!” Sam sounds offended, then sighs. “Jeannie Kingsley. I asked her out today and she just laughed at me and left.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s missing, then.”

Sam snorts cheerlessly. “Yeah.” He pushes a loose strand of hair behind his ear nervously. “So really, how should I make a girl like me?”

Putting down the safety pin, Dean makes a thoughtful sound. “Well, if you’re me, you don’t really have to do anything ‘cause chicks dig bad boys with good looks.”

Sam rolls his eyes with irritation. “Come on!”

Dean lifts his hands above his head in mock surrender and laughs. “I’m not kidding, Sammy. It’s a God’s gift, being handsome like me.”

“The girls at school don’t say you’re handsome,” Sam objects and grins when he sees Dean’s surprise. “They say you’re _pretty_.” He laughs, pointing at Dean, and singsongs, “You’re a _pretty boy_.”

“Don’t call me that,” Dean growls through his teeth and Sam laughs again, taking it as their usual banter and nothing more. Which is a good thing and Dean has no intention of correcting him on that.

The truth is, Dean really hates being called pretty. He’s heard the words too many times, accompanied by bold, greedy touches of both female and male hands, followed by the rustle of exchanged bills. It’s been a few years since he had to resort to that desperate measure, now he has better and safe ways of making money to keep food on the table for Sam while Dad is gone.

But the memories still haunt him sometimes; no matter how often he repeats to himself that it wasn’t whoring if he usually managed to get off, too, that it was just a mutually beneficial encounter, both parties getting what they wanted. And it’s not like he ever let any of them hurt him or do something he didn’t consent to, most of his hook-ups were actually decent, attractive people. So no big deal, really.

“Dean?”

He shakes it off and offers Sam a smile. “Just go on, I’m listening.”

Sam looks him up and down skeptically. “Yeah, right.”

Sitting up straighter, Dean focuses his gaze on his brother, the image of an attentive pupil. “So tell me about this Jeanie girl.”

“Okay.” Obviously satisfied, Sam nods. “I asked her out, said I liked her, offered to buy her a shake or something. She just kind of gave me this smile, like half-polite, half-amused, and said no.”

“That’s cause you didn’t flatter her enough,” Dean explains, because despite his bragging about having success with the ladies thanks to his good looks, that usually only gets him so far. “You gotta make her feel real special. Say the right words and you’ll have her eating out of your hand.”

That apparently catches Sam’s interest. The kid raises his head and stares at Dean expectantly. “What right words?”

Shrugging, Dean says, “You know, the sappy chick flick stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Well, that depends on the girl,” Dean bites on his lip and stares at the dismantled grenade on the table, thinking, but the words just won’t come. Finally, he resigns and lets his eyes wander to his brother.

“You gotta say the romantic stuff, like,” he stares at Sam’s lips, “like that her smile lights up the whole room and all you want to do is see her smile all the time.”

He takes in Sam’s face, open and trusting and curious, young and beautiful. “Stuff like that you can’t stop thinking about her even when you’re not with her, and when you close your eyes, you can still see her just as clearly as if she was standing right in front of you.”

He quickly looks around the motel room with its falsely bright colors and smudgy carpet and narrow beds and Sam, who makes the room the best place on Earth. “Stuff like that if you could choose to be anywhere on the planet, you’d still choose to be with her.”

Sam snorts and shakes his head in clear disbelief. “That’s crap. Nobody means that.”

Forcing himself to keep smiling, Dean nods, but averts his gaze. “Yeah.”

 

 

**August 2002**

“If you leave now,” John – Sam stopped thinking about him as Dad long ago – grits through his teeth, voice like gravel, “don’t bother coming back.”

Sam snorts, shaking his head in disbelief at his father’s words, at his audacity to even think Sam would ever want to go back to him, to this. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

John’s eyes narrow dangerously and something in his posture shifts, like he’s fighting the urge to hit Sam, just barely holding himself back. Sam kind of wishes John _would_ hit him, because then Sam could hit him back, and _God_ , that would feel good.

But John just stares at him for what feels like eternity before relaxing, nodding curtly. “I’m going out now. When I get back, I expect you to be gone.” Then, without another word, he’s out, slamming the door behind him with more force than necessary. Soon after, Sam can hear the engine of John’s truck and then the screeching tires as John speeds out.

Finally releasing the breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, Sam lets himself relax, too, before turning his attention to Dean, who witnessed the whole incident from his spot in the corner. He hasn’t said a word since the shouting match started, and he’s still silent now. But his expression says more than a thousand words – Sam can read Dean’s silent plea for Sam not to do this, as well as the resignation because Dean knows him well enough to know Sam won’t change his mind.

Sam opens his mouth to say something, but no sound comes out, so he closes it again.

Dean looks like his world’s just fallen apart. And maybe it really has, Sam realizes, because Dean’s world _is_ John and Sam. Well, that’s not good enough and it’s damn unhealthy and Sam really, really needs to leave.

“I gotta go,” he tells Dean, and Dean just lets out a shaky breath and nods his head. It’s really weird for someone who’s usually so talkative, but then suddenly Sam gets it when he notices the tears glimmering in Dean’s eyes – Dean doesn’t speak out of fear that his voice would shake too hard.

Sam hasn’t seen tears in Dean’s eyes since… never, actually. It breaks his heart to see them now.

Then Dean looks away, turning his back to Sam, and Sam can hear him taking a deep breath, can see his shoulders straightening as Dean stands taller, accepting the new situation and adapting to it, like the good soldier John made out of him.

“Okay,” Dean says, and his voice is steady now, but he still doesn’t look at Sam. Instead, he starts rummaging through his bag, throwing out clothes and various supplies until he finds what he’s looking for. He stands up and hands it to Sam.

It’s a roll of dollar bills. “Take this. You’re gonna need some cash to start with.” Dean pushes the money into Sam’s hand, closing his fingers around it before pulling his hand back, stuffing it into his jeans pocket instead.

This is ridiculous. Sam offers the money back to his brother. “Dean, no!”

“It was for you anyway,” Dean mutters and doesn’t take the money. “Been saving it so you could buy some of those books you kept prattling about.”

“Dean, I can’t!”

“Sure you can. What would I need it for?”

 _Maybe to buy something for yourself, for once?_ Sam wants to say that, but he doesn’t.

Sighing, Dean gives Sam the authoritative big brother look. “Come on, take it. It’s the only thing I can give you.”

 _That’s not true,_ Sam wants to say, but again, he doesn’t.

“Thanks, Dean,” he slips the banknotes into his pocket.

“Good boy,” Dean offers him a smile that is broken around the edges and pats Sam’s shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get your stuff packed.”

*

Thirty minutes later they’re standing at the nearest bus station, Dean leaning against his Impala casually, watching Sam take out his bags from the trunk.

“So…” Sam lets the baggage hit the ground and turns to face his brother. He’s not sure what to say. How do you say goodbye to the one person that means the most to you?

Dean solves the problem for him by pulling Sam into a hug, wrapping his arms around him tightly. Sam closes his eyes and inhales the unique scent – leather and gun oil and sweat and cheap aftershave – that means _Dean_. He lets himself be weak for one last moment, held in his older brother’s strong embrace.

Then he pulls away and Dean lets him.

Sam reaches for his bags again, throws one over his shoulder.

“Take care of yourself, Sammy,” Dean says quickly, like he wants this to be over with already.

“You too,” Sam says back, looks at Dean one last time and starts walking away, towards the small building with the sign that says TICKETS.

He feels like crap for leaving Dean behind like this. He knows what’s gonna happen next – Dad will come back plastered, frustrated and angry, and he’ll probably take it out on Dean, who will just bear it without a word of protest, because Dean never protests, Dean never says no.

Sam only hopes that without him being around, once Dean won’t have to protect him from everything anymore, then maybe, just maybe, he’ll start working on protecting himself instead.

 

 

**August 2003**

Dean kicks off his boots and takes off his jacket, sits on the bed. Elbows resting on his knees, he lets his head fall to his chest, staring at the cheap carpet on the floor. He stays motionless for a long time.

Finally, he stands up and starts stripping as he heads into the bathroom. His clothes end up in an untidy pile on the floor, because he’s alone and there’s no one to be bothered by his mess.

Dad’s in Nebraska, hunting a ghoul.

And Sam… yeah, Sam’s still gone.

He steps into the shower and starts the water running, turning it as freezing as possible, because he needs the discomfort, the sharpness of the ice-cold droplets hitting his skin and turning it red, to bring himself back to full awareness.

To get himself under control.

He only turns the water off when his teeth are chattering, and towels himself dry quickly, takes a piss, brushes his teeth.

He checks the salt lines along the windows and doors twice, because you can never be too careful.

He flips open his cellphone to see if Dad hasn’t left a message, but there’s nothing.

He slips his Colt under the pillow, turns off the lights and gets into bed.

Of course, no message from Sam, either. Not a word. No surprise there, though.

Dean lets out a heavy sigh and runs his hand across his face tiredly.

One year. It’s been one year exactly since Sam walked out of Dean’s life, never looking back, severing all ties.

It’s actually a good thing that Dad isn’t here tonight, because wherever he is right now, he’s probably getting closely acquainted with the bottom of a bottle. He’s never in a good mood when he thinks of Sam’s betrayal (he always talks about it that way), and being near Dad in moments like these is something Dean tries to avoid.

“God, Sammy, I miss you,” he speaks out loud because nobody’s listening. “Miss you so much, man.”

He tried to keep the memories and the melancholy at bay by finding a pretty girl in the nearest bar, but for some reason, even in the middle of fucking her in her tiny bedroom with Johnny Depp posters on the wall, he couldn’t get the image of Sam out of his head. Quite the opposite. It was the image of Dean’s brother that brought him off in the end.

Usually, Dean’s better at resisting this. But apparently not today.

What the Hell. Screw it.

With a resigned sigh, Dean reaches under the covers and takes himself in hand, starts stroking lazily, closes his eyes and imagines the fingers wrapped around his cock aren’t his but Sam’s. Imagines Sam’s face, eyes wide and lust-hazed, mouth slack in a wordless scream of ecstasy. Imagines himself on his knees, with his mouth wrapped around Sam’s cock, Sam’s fingers in Dean’s hair, holding him firmly and pulling him closer, all the while Sam whispers words like _so good_ and _mine_ and _close now_ and _love you_ –

Arching off the bed as a strong orgasm hits him by surprise, Dean clamps his mouth shut at the last moment, keeping all sounds inside.

“Fuck,” he groans out as he lies there, panting, trying to catch his breath. “What are you doing to me, Sammy?”

The thing is, nobody else ever managed to get under his skin like Sam did (and still does, without even being _here_ ).

Back when everything was fine and they were all still together – Dean and Sam and Dad, all three Winchesters – Dean used to attribute his desire for Sam to the fact that he was young and healthy (meaning horny practically all the time) and that him and Sam spent most of their time together. Hell, sometimes they even shared a bed when the motels were too full.

But then Sam left, and Dean fucked any girl (or guy) that looked his way, and he still couldn’t get Sam out of his head. Sam, his _brother_.

The worst things is that it clearly isn’t just sexual. Dean dreams about Sam laughing at Dean’s lame jokes, Sam biting on his lip in concentration while studying, Sam jumping around in excitement at something he found in a book, Sam asleep in the Impala, Sam, Sam, Sam…

Yeah. Dean isn’t stupid, he knows what this means. He’s in love with his younger brother, and has been for years.

And there’s nothing he’s going to do about it, no one he’s ever going to tell.

It’s a secret that stays between Dean and those dark, silent, empty motel rooms.

 

 

**October 31, 2005**

“It’s funny, right?” Sam chuckles at something Jess tells him on the phone. “Yeah. Haven’t seen you for only one day and I miss you like Hell already.”

Dean suppresses a snort at that and disappears back into the bathroom to try to wash his clothes clean of the river mud. Sam was right, it does stink like a toilet.

Sam. He’s really grown up over the time they haven’t seen each other, became a man. Taller and larger than Dean already, maybe even stronger. The fresh memory of Sam holding him down on the floor of his apartment in Palo Alto, his body pressing into Dean’s, gets Dean hard in a heartbeat, and he frowns at himself in the mirror. This has no place here.

“Get a grip, man,” he orders himself in the best imitation of Dad’s commanding voice.

When he returns to the room, Sam is still talking to Jessica. He’s smiling that wide, bright smile that brings out the dimples on his cheeks. His whole body seems relaxed, at ease, and it’s pretty clear it’s all Jessica’s doing.

“Yeah, see you soon,” he says, his voice warm. “Love you too. Bye.” He throws the phone on the bed next to where he sits, and looks up at Dean. He’s obviously happy and very, very in love.

And Dean is thankful for it, because this, seeing _Sammy_ like this, is the most beautiful sight ever, and one that Dean would give anything to preserve. He promises himself that once they find Dad, he’ll just drop Sam off at Stanford and leave him to live his safe, normal, happy life. He needs Sam to have that.

Even if Dean has no place in Sam’s happy life at all.

 

 

**November 2, 2005**

The room is dark and save the occasional sound of a car passing by or a voice from another part of the motel, everything is still and quiet.

Well, almost.

Lying in his bed, back turned to the room, Dean pretends to be asleep while he listens to his brother quietly sobbing into his pillow in the other bed, mourning Jessica’s death.

Dean wants to get up and hug Sam, hold him, comfort him, tell him it’s all going to be good again. But he doesn’t, because Sam would look at him with that trusting, vulnerable expression, and Dean apparently doesn’t deserve that kind of trust. Not from anyone, and especially not from Sam.

The only thing he deserves is a punch in the face, or a dozen.

He curses himself for dragging Sam back into this life, for being so selfish (because Sam was right, Dean _could_ do this alone, but he just missed Sam so fucking much), for destroying Sam’s happiness.

And he swears to himself that he will make sure nothing bad happens to Sam ever again. No matter what the cost.

 

**May 2006**

Six children dead in one week. Different family backgrounds, different parts of town, different age and gender, but all found dead in back alleys or dumpsters, looking gaunt and kind of mummified, although it they were never found later than two days after they were reported missing. There must be a pattern – besides the obvious cause of death, of course – but although Dean’s already spent hours looking at the map of Chicago, reading about the kids’ and their families’ lives, going through the police reports, he can’t find it. There are just too many monsters that attack children and so far Dean found none that literally suck their victims dry. It’s frustrating as Hell and he wishes Dad was here to help. Dad had this uncanny ability to see connections that the others miss, to solve problems that the others give up on, to win fights that the others deem already lost.

Dean really wishes Dad was here right now, and not just because of this weird, unidentified monster they’re hunting right now (if it even _is_ a monster). Dad’s presence would give Dean a sense of safety, he’d go back to being Dad’s second in command instead of being the decision maker. He’s just better at following orders than giving them, and he’d happily relinquish his position of a leader in a heartbeat.

But he’s got Sam with him now and since Dad’s not here and he obviously doesn’t want his sons to look for him, it’s up to Dean to take care of Sam on his own. Nothing new.

Those freaky visions that Sam has, that is new, though, and Dean doesn’t really know how to deal with them. The truth is, they scare him. Not that he’ll ever let Sam know, of course.

As if on cue, Sam steps out of the bathroom, his hair wet from the long shower he was taking, his t-shirt and sweatpants clinging to damp, water-warmed skin. And no, let’s not to there right now.

“Better?” Dean asks, studying his brother for clues that would show Sam’s condition is improving. The poor kid’s being wrecked with these head-splitting headaches, probably a side-effect of those damn visions he’s having more and more frequently.

Sam offers Dean a sad, tight smile and shrugs. “Not really.” He plops down to his bed and just sits there, looking tired and miserable.

“Did you take the painkillers?”

“Yeah, a whole fistful of them.” Another sad smile, almost apologetic, as if this was somehow Sam’s fault. “They don’t seem to work.”

Standing up, Dean reaches for his keys and grabs his jacket. “Then I’ll get different ones. Or more of them. Some of the stuff has to work, right?”

He’s already reaching for the door handle when Sam’s voice stops him. “Dean, wait. There’s no point, okay? It’s not gonna work, and really, we have more important things to concentrate on right now,” he gestures towards the table with Dean’s research.

“More important, huh?” Dean wants to throttle Sam for even thinking that, then decides that would be a bad idea, then almost reconsiders it again, because maybe knocking Sam out would at least give the guy a few hours of undisturbed rest. In the end, he just stores the possibility for later.

“Yeah, we need to solve this case before more kids die, Dean,” Sam explains patiently, and as he talks, he starts massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

Sighing, Dean throws the keys and his jacket back on his bed and sits next to Sam, his right hand reaching out, fingers going to the back of Sam’s head automatically, running through the long, damp hair and massaging the scalp.

“That’s good,” Sam says softly, sounding pleasantly surprised.

“Magic fingers.” Dean says it jokingly, but he’s seriously glad that he can help, even if just a little. Gradually, Sam relaxes into Dean’s touch, closing his eyes and making these small, happy sounds. Dean shifts on the bed and switches to using both hands as he works his fingers on Sam’s head, from temples to nape.

“God, you’re stiff,” he observes when he feels the locked up muscles in Sam’s neck. “No wonder you feel like crap.” He starts kneading Sam’s shoulders and when Sam doesn’t protest, he collects his courage and suggests, “How about you take that shirt off and I give you a proper massage?”

Sam throws a partly assenting, partly doubtful look at Dean over his shoulder. “When did you become such an expert?” But he’s already pulling his shirt over his head, so his skepticism must be outweighed by the skill Dean’s already showed. Or by the magnitude of his headache.

“I kinda hooked up with a masseuse, couple years back,” Dean stands up and hurries to the bathroom where he grabs a towel and fishes out a tub of massage oil from his toiletries bag. Sam’s eyebrow quirks in amusement when he sees the oil, but Dean gives him a stern look and ignores it. “Shut up. It’s real successful with the ladies.”

“I have no doubt,” Sam eases himself onto the bed, resting on his stomach, arms along his body. He’s all long limbs and lean muscles, more beautiful than anyone Dean’s ever seen, and Dean will never be allowed to tell him.

Swallowing the sudden rush of self-regret, Dean concentrates on the job at hand. He grabs Sam’s pillow and pokes Sam in the shoulder. “Get this under your chest.” He folds the towel several times and places it underneath Sam’s forehead. “To keep your neck straight,” he clarifies when Sam makes an inquisitive sound.

He kicks off his shoes and kneels on the edge of the bed and bites on his lip, nervous about the next part. “I could do it a lot better if I could straddle you,” he keeps his voice low and as detached as possible. It’s not like he’s making this up so he can satisfy his twisted needs, he’ll really have better access and leverage like this. Yet still he can’t help feeling somewhat guilty. Sam has no idea how many of Dean’s dreams revolve around him being able to touch Sam.

“Okay,” Sam agrees quickly, sounding undisturbed, and that finally convinces Dean that this is really okay. He’s not doing this just for kicks, after all, he’s doing it to help Sam get better. He moves so his knees are on either side of Sam’s hips, not quite sitting down.

Next, he squirts some of the oil into his hand and rubs it between his palms until it’s warm . “Gonna spread it around a bit first,” he prepares Sam for the first touch. As he works the oil into Sam’s skin, he’s surprised how ridiculously small his hands look on the wide expanse of Sam’s back.

When he’s satisfied, Dean starts making palm circles on Sam’s lower back, then the muscle lifting, followed by using his knuckles. It’s been a while since he’s done this, but he remembers what the massage therapist – actually, it was a guy, not a girl, but he’s not going to tell Sam that – taught him well, and he concentrates on the work, on doing it right.

He’s so lost in it that it takes him a while to notice that Sam’s making these low, rumbling, content noises again, his whole body vibrating under Dean’s touch. The sounds raise heat low in Dean’s belly, his mind ready to offer dirty images to accompany the soundtrack. _Fuck_. So much for keeping this situation safe.

“Something wrong?”

Dean realizes he’s stopped working. “No, sorry. Just got lost in thoughts.” He resumes his action, working on the knots in Sam’s back, loosening them up one by one. His fingers are getting tired, but the small discomfort is a welcome distraction from Dean’s overimaginative mind.

When he’s finally done, satisfied with easing the tension from Sam’s muscles, Sam is dozing off peacefully. Careful not to disturb him, Dean slowly climbs out of the bed. He should keep Sam warm, but Sam’s lying on top of his blanket, so Dean takes the one from his own bed and covers Sam with it carefully.

Allowing himself a little selfishness, he keeps his hand on Sam’s back for a little while, feeling the warm, now relaxed flesh. “Sleep well, brother,” he says softly, feeling himself smile. This is like when they were kids, and Dean misses those times – hard as they might have been – more than he’d care to admit. Everything was simpler then, easier.

But there’s no point crying over something that’s long gone. Dean washes the massage oil off his hands and grabs a beer from the fridge in the kitchen before going back to his research.

A few hours later, Sammy rouses from his sleep with a yawn. He sits up, squints confusedly at the blanket Dean had covered him with, then at Dean, who watches him from his table. “How long was I out?”

“Three, four hours.” More like five, but that’s not important.

“You should’ve woken me up.”

“You needed to get some sleep,” Dean objects. “You’d be no use to me staggering around like a zombie.”

“Jerk.” Still a little sleep-hazed, Sam disentangles himself from the covers and picks up his shirt from where it lies on the bedside table.  Walking over to where Dean sits, he leans over Dean’s shoulder to take a look at the books and various notes he has laid out on the table. “You find anything?”

“Actually, yeah.” Dean taps his finger against one page in his notebook, the paper covered with his scrawny yet orderly handwriting. “It’s a Jezinka.”

“A what?”

This is a chance to be the one giving lectures for one, and Dean wouldn’t miss it for the world. “In old Slavic fairy-tales, they knock on doors when the adults aren’t home, asking the children to let them in, saying stuff like ‘Just open the door a little bit, so we can warm our fingers and then we’ll go.’ When the kid opens the door, the Jezinkas slip inside and kidnap them, hiding them in their lairs underground. They feed off their energy, suck them dry and then leave them to die.”

“How come you know about Slavic fairytales?” Sam looks almost offended.

Dean shrugs noncommittally. “I had a lot of time on my hands between hunts. Decided to look into folklore, old fairytales and stuff from all kinds of cultures. Thought it might be useful, seeing as many of those fairytales actually have some truth in them.” He spent long hours in various libraries and archives, even at colleges when he had the time, consulting with professors and sneaking into lectures on folklore and old traditions and beliefs. Everything he learned, he wrote down and catalogued, which even managed to impress Dad, and that really meant something.

Now, Sam looks impressed, too. “Huh. That’s… kinda cool.”

It’s not really, there’s nothing special about Dean’s work, it was just time spent on researching and comparing and analyzing. But there’s no way Dean’s going to say that to Sam if he can use the opportunity to bother the Hell out of him for once. “That’s cause I’m the coolest older brother ever,” he gives Sam a smug smirk.

“Oh really?” There it is, bitchface Nr. 5, as Sam gets himself worked up, probably feeling righteous anger or whatever. “And how is being cool related to leaving dirty underwear on the floor or stealing your younger brother’s prom date?”

“Hey! That was years ago!” Dean defends himself quickly. “And she wasn’t even worth it, so I actually saved you from a bad experience.” Sam opens his mouth to protest and Dean slaps his hand over it, silencing him. “Also, I gave you one Hell of a massage today, so I win.”

Pushing his hand away, Sam laughs. “Okay, okay.” He glances at Dean’s notes on the table and his expressions grows serious, the playfulness gone, replaced by determination. “So are we gonna take out this Jezinka or what?”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Dean pats him on the shoulder and heads toward the door, twirling the keys to the Impala around one finger. Sam follows him, moving with an ease and energy he hasn’t shown in weeks, fresh and rested.

And that’s what Dean’s here for, right? A job well done, and as he closes the door behind him, heading out for a hunt, with his brother by his side, Dean feels just fine.

 

**September 2006**

Sam’s not sure what woke him, but it wasn’t a nightmare for once, so he just leaves it at that.

It’s still pretty early, though, the alarm clock on the nightstand tells him, and Sam almost lets himself succumb to sleep again when he realizes that something’s off and his eyes snap open again. He sits up a little and looks around the room with sleepy eyes.

There. Dean’s bed is empty, the covers made, as if he never even went to sleep.

Before he has time to panic, Sam notices a movement by the window. It’s Dean, sitting in a chair, reading through John’s journal, his back to the window so the early morning light can fall on the journal’s pages.

Dean looks up from his reading, and the moment his gaze falls on Sam, his expression softens. “Go back to sleep,” he says, his voice sounding hoarse from lack of use. “It’s not time to get up yet.”

Instead of obeying, Sam sits up straighter, leaning against the headboard. “Did you…“ He clears his throat and starts again, “Did you get any sleep this night?”

Dean’s eyes flick to the perfectly made bed and his shoulders sag a little as he probably decides there’s no point in lying. “Didn’t feel like sleeping.” He looks at Sam defiantly, like he expects to be reprimanded. John used to be pretty strict about the whole sleeping thing, always insisting that at least a couple of hours of sleep were necessary if you wanted to do your job well.

And then Sam gets it and immediately curses himself for not realizing what this was about earlier. “This is about Dad, right?”

Dean stiffens, then shrugs. His lack of answer is answer enough.

“Dean, you gotta let it go, man.”

Snapping the journal closed, Dean stands up abruptly. “Let it go? He died for me, how am I supposed to let it go?”

Sam doesn’t really know what to say to that. He’s been thinking about it ever since Dean had opened up to him on that highway, he’s been trying to look at it from all the different angles, searching for something that would make Dean feel better, that would bring him some peace of mind. But everything he comes up with seems too shallow or too general.

“You are his son,” he offers finally, because this is the best argument he managed to come up with. “A father would do anything for his children.” No matter what differences Sam and John had, Sam never doubted John’s love for his sons. His ways of showing it, yes, but never the love itself.

Dean sits back down, suddenly looking tired. “Yeah.”

“Of all the ways he could go down,” Sam decides to risk saying it, “I’m sure this is the most meaningful.”

“Yeah.” Except it totally sounds like a “No way in Hell.”

Sam sighs deeply. This is going about as well as he expected. “I get that it hurts, and I can’t imagine what it must feel like, but… Dean, you gotta trust me on this. You were worth it.”

Dean shoots an angry glance in his direction, like he’s offended by the words.

“Okay, look. If you don’t trust me, then trust Dad, okay?” It’s Sam’s best shot, and he hates that he has to turn to John for help, but if it makes Dean feel better, Sam will swallow his pride without hesitation. “You always followed his orders, you never doubted his judgment.”

Shaking his head, Dean raises one hand to hold Sam off, and Sam realizes Dean’s expecting another argument about how he should have a mind of his own.

“Just let me finish, okay?” He continues quickly, not giving Dean the chance to interrupt him. “What I meant to say is that when Dad said something was important, or that it was good, or necessary, or whatever… you’d always believe him, right?”

Dean gives a barely perceptible nod, probably sensing a trap but unable to deny his loyalty to his father anyway.

“And Dad never did anything he didn’t believe in. So if he died so you could live, then he must’ve thought it was the right thing to do. That you were worth it.”

Dean stares at Sam, his face partly hidden in the shadows, and what is visible of it is hard and unmoving, like a mask, like a dead man’s face.

“You’re a good man, Dean,” Sam babbles on, not caring that he’s verging on the chick flick territory, just hoping that for once, Dean will listen and take Sam’s words to heart. “You’re brave and loyal and smart, and if anyone’s worth saving, then it’s you.” He looks at his brother desperately, willing him to understand, to accept, to agree.

“Sure,” Dean nods and the corners of his lips rise until they form something distantly resembling a smile. “I guess you’re right. Thanks, Sammy.”

“Really?”

Rolling his eyes, Dean sighs heavily. “Yeah, man. I’m good. I’m fine, Sam.” When Sam just keeps staring at him, Dean sighs again and stands up. “Alright, you want us to hug it out? We’ll hug it out. Come on.”

“Dean, that’s not–“

Dean crosses the room in several angry, purposeful strides and pulls Sam into the most un-huglike hug of Sam’s life, then steps back. “See? We talked, we hugged, now give me my four hours of sleep.” He plomps onto the bed, face-first, grabbing the pillow under his head, clearly signaling that this is the end of this conversation.

Sam wants to scream. Or hit something. Possibly scream at Dean and hit Dean.

It’s clear as day that Dean doesn’t believe Sam, and Sam starts to resign himself to the fact that Dean will never learn to believe in his own worth, will never see himself as anything else but a blunt instrument in the fight against monsters, a protector of his brother and an expendable foot soldier in a war that never ends.

God, how did this happen?

 

 

**February 2007**

Dean only lets the tension in his body show when he hears the shower running in the bathroom. Sam always takes so long, probably because of all that stupid long hair. Dean knows girls with longer – and much prettier – hair that spend less time and energy on it than Sam does.

Of course, he doesn’t say this out loud anymore, because anytime he mentions it, Sam retaliates with an attack on Dean’s hair gel. Which is totally unjustified, by the way.

Despite the graveness of their situation, Dean snickers at the memory of him and his brother bickering like that. He misses those moments, it’s all seriousness and destiny and “you have to kill me before I hurt somebody”, and that shit gets old real fast.

It’s not like Dean doesn’t take it seriously. He’s very responsible about the whole thing, and he’s spent countless sleepless nights mulling over the problem, over Dad’s dying wish.

He snorts and shakes his head at the absurdity – the last words Dad said to him were “If you can’t find a way to save Sam, you have to kill him.” It can’t get much worse than that.

Dean knows Sam’s scared of those freaky-ass superpowers he’s got going on, and he can understand that, considering what they’ve seen the other kids like Sam do. How somewhere along the way, something snapped inside them, something went wrong and they ended up… Yeah, why not say it. Evil.

Sammy’s not like that, though. He won’t become one of them. It just isn’t in him to hurt other people, to cause pain and misery. Sam is inherently good, he always has a smile saved for everyone, he’s always willing to help those around him. It’s like he can’t even squash a bug without feeling bad about it.

So, with all due respect, Dad can shove his stupid order up his ass. Dean’s not going to kill Sam. Period.

“Uh, Dean? Have you seen my razor?” The bathroom door swings open and Sam walks out, steam rolling around him. He only has a towel wrapped around his waist, and as he searches for the razor in his bags, moving around the room, he gives Dean quite the show.

God, when will Sam ever stop getting bigger and bigger? Dean hopes it’s going to be soon, because he’s not sure how much of this he can handle. Bigger Sam means more Sam, and more Sam means more temptation, and Dean’s only human, after all.

“Ha! Found it!” Sam holds the razor up, waving it victoriously before disappearing in the bathroom again, for which Dean is very thankful, because it’s impossible to will down a boner with the object of your dreams prancing around practically naked and looking all kinds of hot.

“I’m so screwed,” Dean mutters to himself.

“What?” Sam shouts from the bathroom.

“Nothing!” He yells back and goes to sit at the desk where their current research is spread out, books and newspaper clippings and Dad’s journal. He needs to do something to keep his mind occupied.

*

When Sam walks out the bathroom again, he’s dressed, thank God. He also has his guilty face on. “Dean, about what happened with Meg…“

“If you say you’re sorry one more time, I’m gonna kick your ass,” Dean practically growls. “And I’m dead serious about that.”

Sam shuts his mouth and very pointedly says nothing.

“Alright, seems like we gotta go over it one more time, so the slower kids can catch up with the rest of the class.” Dean stands up and faces Sam, wishing he were taller and didn’t have to look up to meet his brother’s eyes for this. It’s not really good for authority. “I thought we talked this through at Bobby’s, but apparently you’re not as smart as everyone thinks you are.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam sighs. “Dean. I’m not stupid, you know. I just–“

“Yeah, you’re sorry you got possessed by Meg and killed a bunch of hunters and shot me and tried to kill me and Bobby,” Dean rattles on quickly in a bored tone, counting the individual items on Sam’s _Why I Suck This Week_ list. “I heard you the first ten times.”

“I know you heard me,” Sam still doesn’t seem happy. “I’m just not sure you were really listening.”

“Huh?” Maybe Meg fucked up the kid’s head somehow.

Sam sighs again, and suddenly their positions are reversed – Sam is the one giving a lecture and Dean is the slow kid who doesn’t get it. “I killed several people. I mean it wasn’t really me, it was Meg, but sooner or later other hunters are gonna learn about this and they’re not gonna care which black-eyed son of a bitch was wearing me at the time. They’re gonna go after me.”

It’s not like Dean hasn’t thought about that too. The solution is simple. “Then we get rid of them.”

Sam’s eyes widen with recognition. “Dean, you can’t be serious.”

“The Hell I can’t.”

Sam starts pacing across the room now, looking a bit like a hurt, caged lion. “I can’t just walk around and have people suffer because of me, Dean. I just can’t.” He turns his expressive, pleading eyes to Dean. “I can’t become a monster like the others.”

“And you won’t.” Dean lets all of his conviction and faith in Sam show in his voice. “So stop asking me to kill you.”

“Why?” The question of a petulant child, even with the pouting lips.

“Because it pisses me off.”

To show that this conversation’s over, Dean sits on his bed and goes back to cleaning his weapons. Sam hovers above him for good three more minutes, but Dean simply ignores him until Sam huffs out an agitated breath and stomps away with a “Whatever, dude”. He’s such a drama queen sometimes.

The thing is, even the whole “you have to kill me before I go darkside” mess aside, Sam’s fits of massive self-depreciation are really grating on Dean’s nerves like nothing else. It just makes no sense to him how someone as intelligent, as smart as Sam would be so blind when it came to his own worth. Sam always sees the best in other people, he’s always the one who says everyone’s worth saving, even going as far as to defending abstaining vampires against other hunters.

So why the Hell can’t he see the good in himself, why can’t he believe he deserves to live, to find happiness? He’s not like Dean, who is a lone wolf, solitary and possibly a little sociopathic, often insensitive, grumpy and downright annoying. In fact, if you wanted an example of a life that isn’t really worth that much, it would probably be Dean’s.

But not Sam’s, for God’s sake. It’s giving Dean a headache, trying to comprehend how his brother can still fail to see that. It just makes no sense at all.

 

 

**December 2007**

“Hey, Sammy, I hope you’re ready for some fu–“ Dean freezes mid-word, mid-step, whole body still except for his right hand that immediately draws his Colt.

“Close the door behind you, would you?” Says one of the three armed men standing in the motel room. Two of them are aiming at Dean, the third one has his gun pointed at Sam, who is tied to a chair, gagged and with bruises on his face. And he’s shaking his head wildly, probably trying to tell Dean to get away. Like that’s gonna happen.

Slowly, Dean closes the door behind him with a nudge of his boot.

“Good boy,” the man who spoke before says again. “Now put the gun down and kick it towards me.”

Again, Dean has no other choice but to obey. “Satisfied?”

“Not yet. On your knees, hands behind your back.”

As Dean sinks to the floor and clasps his hands behind his back, he studies the man intently. He seems vaguely familiar. “Aren’t you Harrison Vaughn?”

The guy looks mildly surprised. “You remember me? Last time I saw you, you were just a kid.”

“Good memory, I guess. Who are your friends?”

“None of your concern,” Harrison barks and those two guys flanking him just stare at Dean blankly. “All you need to know is that we’re here for your brother.”

Cold fear grips at Dean’s insides. “Why?”

“Gordon told us all about him,” the guy standing left of Harrison answers. “How he opened the Hellgate and let the demons out. How he’s going to lead the demon army and destroy the Earth. He has to be stopped.”

“God, not this bullshit again!” Dean lowers his voice when he receives three matching warning looks. “He’s not a fucking Antichrist, he’s one of the good guys!”

“He killed Gordon,” Harrison objects.

Dean barks out a laugh. “Gordon was a vampire! And a psycho! You’re gonna believe him over us?”

“Gordon was our friend,” Harrison growls dangerously. “He died fighting a noble fight.”

“You gotta be kidding me.”

“Enough talking!” Harrison waves his gun around a bit. “Tell me what are you and your brother planning.”

“You just said no talking.”

“You arrogant fucker!” Harrison crosses the room and raises his arm to strike Dean with his gun.

This is Dean’s opening. He springs up and strikes, catching Harrison in the solar plexus and wrestling the gun from his suddenly weak grip. He grabs the man before he crumbles to the ground and holds him up, using him as a human shield, the gun at the man’s temple. “Nobody move!”

“Dad!” The younger of the other two hunters shouts and starts toward Dean, but the other man stops him.

“Kels, he has my dad!” Harrison’s son almost whines out, visibly panicking. Good.

“And we have his brother,” Kels retorts calmly. He’s not losing his cool and he keeps aiming his gun at Sam’s head as he looks Dean in the eyes. A real professional, this one, easily the most dangerous of the three. “Let Harrison go or I put a bullet in your precious brother’s head.”

“How about you let Sam go first?” Dean asks and presses one arm against Harrison’s windpipe to put a stop to his weak struggles.

“No way.” Kels is still calm, he’s not going to break under the pressure. Dean has to concentrate on Harrison’s son, use him somehow.

“One pull of the trigger and your father’s brains will decorate the walls,” he says, locking eyes with the kid.

“You’ll be dead in the next second,” the kid’s voice is shaking. As is his hand holding the gun.

“Oh really?” Dean lets his lip curl into a grin, the nasty one he usually reserves for the especially evil monsters he truly enjoys killing. “Haven’t you heard? I already have a trip to Hell scheduled. Can’t really threaten a dying man.” He releases the safety catch and starts pulling the trigger.

Harrison’s son’s eyes widen with fear. “No!” He starts moving towards Dean and his father again and once more, Kels tries to stop him. This time, though, the kid fights him and they start to struggle.

Dean lets go of Harrison’s limp body and fires twice in quick succession, both bullets finding their targets. Kels drops to the floor dead and Harrison’s son injured, clutching at his right hand. Dean makes a quick job of tying Harrison and his son up first and then moves to release Sam.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam starts saying as soon as the gag is out of his mouth, “they caught me unprepared.”

“Doesn’t matter, I’ve got you,” Dean cuts away the ropes binding Sam’s wrists and ankles and helps him up, supporting him as Sam sways on numb, bloodless legs. “Come on, we gotta get lost. The cops will be here any moment.”

They pack their bags in record speed and then they’re at the door.

Dean stops and looks at Harrison’s son, who is pale and sobbing with pain. He crouches down to look the kid in the eye. “Don’t come after us again. And tell the others, too. The next time anyone as much as hurts a hair on my brother’s head, I’ll leave no one alive.”

The kid nods but doesn’t dare to speak.

Dean stands up. “Come on, Sam. Let’s go.”

Sam follows him out of the door.

 

 

**April 2008**

“Dean, don’t go!” Sam wakes up with a cry, disoriented, shaking, hyperventilating. It was that dream again – Dean being ripped apart by a hellhound and Sam watching from afar, unable to help, unable to move as Dean is dragged down to Hell.

Dean wakes up a fraction of a second later, going from fast asleep to alert in a heartbeat, one hand on the gun that he keeps under his pillow, the other turning on the bedside lamp, and his eyes, full of concern, trained on Sam. “Sammy?”

Sam grunts in reply to signal he’s alive, but he doesn’t trust himself with words yet. His throat feels raw and parched. He needs to drink something.

Before he can even get up, Dean’s at his side, handing him a glass of water. Sam accepts it with another grunt, thankful that they’re so good at communicating even without words.

He drinks the water slowly; small, careful sips that soothe his throat and cool his head a little. He gives the empty glass back to Dean. “Thanks,” he tries. It sounds a little rough, but better than he feared.

“Sure,” Dean nods, but he doesn’t move, still standing above Sam’s bed, watching him critically. He doesn’t ask about Sam’s nightmare, though, thank God.

Dean’s hair is tousled from sleep, sticking up every which way, and Sam can see gooseflesh rising on the skin of Dean’s arms and legs in the cool night air that comes from the open window. Dressed only in his boxers and a thin, worn t-shirt, Dean should look… normal, or maybe a bit funny, even. But he doesn’t. He looks like a soldier standing guard, watching over his younger brother like always.

That pisses Sam off. Dean shouldn’t be the one doing the protecting now, he shouldn’t be the one that has to be strong and supportive. In less than a month, he’s going to Hell, for God’s sake!

“You okay?” Dean asks finally, like Sam knew he would. It was inevitable.

“Yeah,” he lies, easier now that his heart isn’t trying to jump out of his chest. “Just a bad dream. Don’t even remember what it was about anymore.”

Dean’s eyes narrow as he studies Sam closely before he shrugs and gets back into his bed, turning the light off again.

Sam thinks Dean can tell he’s lying about being alright, because for some reason, Dean can always tell, can always see right through Sam’s act.

What Dean doesn’t know is that it actually goes both ways – Sam can see right through Dean’s lies and false bravado, too. He knows what is hiding behind all those jokes and casual remarks and macho talk. Dean is scared of going to Hell, he’s fucking _terrified_ , and he has every right to be.

But Dean won’t talk about it, and he won’t do anything about it, won’t break the deal he’s made, because the only thing he’s apparently more scared of than going to Hell is Sam dying.

*

When Sam hears the Impala’s unmistakable rumble from the outside, he quickly erases the browsing history on his laptop, deleting the ton of correspondence with various hunters, psychics, witches and other experts, all on the topic of breaking deals with a crossroads demon. Until he finds someone who knows how to let Dean off the hook, he’s not going to mention it to his brother.

If he found out, Dean would probably lock Sam up somewhere for the rest of the time he has left to make sure he didn’t mess with the deal.

The door swings open and Dean comes through, both hands full of two large pizza boxes and a plastic bag full of something that smells like chicken wings hanging from his wrist. He kicks the door shut behind him and walks over to the only table in the room, currently occupied by Sam’s research. “Get your shit off the table,” he orders instead of a greeting. “I want to eat.”

“You’re such a primitive,” Sam grumbles, but hurries to remove his books and laptop from the table anyway, because if he didn’t, Dean might do it for him, and with much less care. “I should just let you eat on the floor.”

Dean places the pizza boxes on the now clear table, then puts the box of wings on top of it. He shrugs out of his leather jacket, and from the close distance between them now, Sam can tell Dean got laid tonight. And not just by the smell of sex that clings to Dean – which, by the way, _gross_ – but also by the hickeys on his neck, clearly visible now that the jacket is gone. And yeah, Dean’s smug, satisfied smile is definitely a clue, too.

“You stink,” he tells Dean, scrunching up his nose.

“Jealous, Sammy?” Dean sticks out the tip of his tongue between his teeth, leering at Sam. “It’s called having sex. You should try it sometimes.”

Sam rolls his eyes at that. It’s unbelievable how some things never change. He can see Dean when he’s eighty years old, all scrawny and bald, and still with the cheap, dirty jokes.

Except Dean will never make it to eighty. He won’t even make it to thirty, all because of that stupid deal.

“You okay?” Dean waves his hand in front of Sam’s face, bringing him out of his thoughts. “Want a beer?”

“Sure.”

He’s handed a cool, uncapped bottle, and watches Dean uncap his own. Dean always offers the first beer to Sam. Dean always lets Sam take the better bed. Dean always spends more money on Sam’s food than on his own. Dean always steps in front of Sam the minute a threat appears. Dean sold his soul for Sam and will suffer in Hell for eternity.

“Earth to Sam.” Something’s poking Sam’s shin, and he looks down to discover it’s the tip of Dean’s boot. Dean is watching him warily. “Dude. You sure you’re fine?”

Sam hates that question, but he answers anyway. “Absolutely.” He’s getting better at lying, he thinks. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Huh.” Dean still doesn’t look fully convinced, but he lets it slip as he sits at the table and opens the first pizza box, then scrunches his face up in disgust and hands the box to Sam. “Weird green veggie stuff goes to you, Sammy.”

“Thanks,” Sam grabs a slice and takes a bite, moaning in pleasure at the taste, because, of course, Dean knows exactly what Sam likes on his pizza, even though he keeps making fun of it every chance he gets. “This is really good.”

“Mhm,” Dean nods, mouth full of his own pizza. His eyes are closed and he chews with this blissful expression, like he’s concentrating on the taste and nothing else, like he’s savoring every mouthful, like he never wants it to be gone.

Sam sees this expression on Dean quite a lot lately. He’s already seen it when Dean’s driving, when he’s drinking his beer, when he’s ogling girls, even when he’s handling his weapons (and how fucked up is that?).

He remembers seeing a similar expression before, when he was at Stanford and Jess was going through her charity phase and dragged Sam along with her into a hospice to talk to the patients. Those men and women were dying, and they knew it, and they were grateful for every smile that went their way, for every sunbeam that warmed their skin, for every happy moment they could get.

Again, Sam is brought out of his bleak thoughts by Dean, who whacks him on the head with his pizza box. “Dude, that’s enough.”

Frowning, Sam avoids another attack of the cardboard box. “What’s enough?” He grabs the box and takes it from Dean, placing it back on the table.

“You. Moping.” Dean accuses him with a hard stare. “All the freaking time.”

“I’m not moping.” Sam starts on another slice, hoping that the food will distract Dean.

“Bullshit.” No such luck, obviously. Dean ignores his own pizza and focuses his attention solely on his brother, which is never good. “You’re just shuffling around looking all tragic and brooding. It’s ridiculous. You’re like that Hamlet guy, just whining and being depressing.”

“Well, maybe I have a reason!” The words are out before he can stop himself. They haven’t really talked about it yet, not without Dean playing the whole thing off as a joke, as if the fact his time was running out didn’t matter at all. And now there’s hot rage boiling inside Sam and he can’t keep it inside anymore. “Maybe if you took this whole deal more seriously for one second–“

“I am taking this _very_ seriously,” Dean growls, his face suddenly mere inches from Sam’s as he leans across the table. “And that’s all I’m gonna do about it.” Another way of Dean saying he’s not going to call it off, surely. “So stop playing this tragic figure or I’ll finish myself off before my year’s even done.” Then he’s back in his chair, wolfing the rest of his pizza quickly, like he can’t enjoy the food anymore.

Sam mentally kicks himself for spoiling Dean’s meal. “Sorry, man.”

“’S okay.”

He shakes his head and barely manages to keep the desperate laugh in his throat. “It’s not okay. I shouldn’t… I’m sorry.”

Dean stands up again, fast enough to knock his chair back. “That’s it. You’ve just reached the critical level of being pathetic.”

Sam’s tired of all this. “So what?”

For a moment, Dean looks like he’s contemplating strangling his brother, but then a dangerous smile spreads on his face. “Sammy, do I need to bring out the dignity ghost?”

Sam huffs out an incredulous laugh. “Seriously? What am I, eight?”

Nodding happily, Dean agrees. “Apparently, yeah. And that’s how I’m gonna treat you. The ghost is coming.”

“Dean, come on!” This is another of those Dean’s attempts at lightening the situation, at making Sam forget what’s really going on, but Sam’s not a kid anymore, he won’t let himself be fooled again. “Stop fooling around.”

But it’s already too late.

“Hello, Sam Winchester,” Dean declares in a rasping voice, “I am the ghost of your lost dignity.” He’s bouncing on his feet as he speaks, slowly going up and down, and on every upward move he puffs out his chest and cheeks and bulges his eyes, making himself look bigger, and on every downward move he does the opposite, even ducking his head between his shoulders to appear smaller. It’s supposed to make him look like he’s oscillating, and Sam supposes that this is what Dean had envisioned the ghosts look like when he was still too young to be taken on hunts with Dad, because no real ghosts look like this.

It’s comical, really, but Sam can’t laugh; this is serious.

Dean doesn’t seem to think so because he continues with his show: “I have been dying in pain for years, watching helplessly as you did everything in your power to kill me. You let your hair grow ridiculously long, and you listen to emo music, and you blush and look away when hot chicks are trying to pick you up, and you constantly ignore your brother’s awesomeness instead of learning it from him.” He points at Sam, probably trying to look threatening, but not succeeding at all. “Shame on you, Sam Winchester. Shame on you.”

And Sam really doesn’t want to laugh, but Dean’s rendition of the dignity ghost is priceless in its lameness, and it brings back memories of when they were younger and everything was simpler and brighter and the dignity ghost’s visits were motivated by Sam moping over things like getting an A- or being turned down by a girl. Also Dean looks absolutely ridiculous and Sam just can’t help it – he starts laughing.

Dean finally stops with the bouncing and he gives Sam a warm, affectionate smile, the one that says he’s happy because he did his job and managed to raise Sam’s spirits, chase Sam’s worries away. He’s been doing that ever since Sam can remember, and obviously he’s determined to keep doing it until he breathes his last breath.

 

 

**May 2008**

Despite Bobby’s loud and probably justifiable protests, Sam buried Dean’s body without burning and salting it. He counted on bringing him back, he was sure he would find a way, he had to.

It turned out he was wrong. No crossroads demon is willing to take the deal and Sam doesn’t see any other options left. He’s not stupid enough to try dark magic, he doesn’t want zombie Dean, he wants normal Dean. And apparently he’s not going to have him.

He’s more than just a little drunk when he stumbles into the tiny motel room, he nearly trips over his own feet on the way to the bed. He should probably take a shower, he smells like an old, homeless drunk, but since there’s no one but him here, it doesn’t really matter, does it?

He sinks into the mattress and thinks.

Dean’s been gone for two weeks now and Sam hasn’t really concentrated on anything but bringing him back up until now. Only he knows now that’s impossible.

Dean is gone, gone for good, and Sam finally realizes how much he misses him, how much he needs to see his smile, hear his deep voice, feel the comforting touch of his calloused hand. But he’ll never have that again.

“Alright,” he sits up and waits until the room stops spinning around him, pushes himself to his feet and sways uncertainly, subconsciously still expecting Dean’s strong hands to catch him, steady him, keep him safe. “Plan B.”

He somehow makes it to the corner of the room where two duffels are on the floor, one Sam’s, one Dean’s. Sam grabs the one that used to belong to his brother and carries it back to the bed, sets onto it and sits down.

It feels weird, unzipping the bag, like he’s opening something that isn’t his, like he might find something that wasn’t meant for his eyes. He does it anyway, he just misses Dean so bad and since he can’t have him, he has to make do with whatever Dean left behind.

Sam pulls out several items of clothing and feels proud when he resists the pathetic urge to sniff at it. He puts the clothes aside and keeps digging.

There’s Dean’s toiletry bag, old and faded, hiding the most common toothbrush and toothpaste you could possibly find, an outdated electric razor that used to belong to Dad when they were kids, a nearly used up Old Spice stick, a tube of hair gel and a small bottle of KY. “I don’t even wanna know,” he chuckles, then hiccups as he puts the contents of the toiletry bag back inside.

Next, he finds three copies of _Busty Asian Beauties_.

Then there’s Dad’s journal and the notebook with Dean’s own notes, the ones about fairytale monsters that Dean showed Sam when they were hunting that Jezinka. Sam flips through it quickly, once again amazed at the startlingly systematic nature of Dean’s work.

At the bottom of the bag, Sam finds an old, wooden cigar box he’s never seen before. Curious, he opens it.

His heart clenches in pain when he sees the old picture of Mom, and another one of all the four Winchesters, probably taken soon before the fire. There are more pictures and Sam is surprised to discover most of them are showing him. There’s Sam, proud and smiling, clutching onto his Division Championship soccer trophy. There’s Sam, serious and looking at the camera with an air of importance, dressed in his graduation gown.

Clasped together, there are several newspaper clippings. Sam recognizes the newspaper as _The Stanford Daily_ , the student newspaper he used to contribute to. The articles are all either written by Sam or about Sam, and reading those lines is like reading about somebody else’s life. It seems like a lifetime ago.

“I didn’t know you kept track of my records when I was at Stanford,” he mutters, shaking his head, then regretting it as the room around him starts to spin again. “Seems like you were my biggest fan.”

There is more in that box, drawings and handicrafts, some of them Sam even remembers making. But his eyes land on a hand-written essay he must’ve penned when he was about nine, titled _My Future_. His eyes brim with tears as he reads the beginning: _When I grow up, I’m going to be a lawyer or a doctor so I can keep my older brother Dean, who is a hero and saves people, out of trouble_.

Hot tears start hitting the old, yellowed paper, blurring the words written there until they’re illegible. It doesn’t matter, though. They were just empty words anyway.

 

 

**October 2008**

There are several reasons why Sam can’t sleep. Again.

First of all – and he feels a pang of guilt just thinking about it – he misses Ruby. And not just because of her blood or because she’s a warm body lying next to him at night, but also because she doesn’t keep secrets from him and he doesn’t have to keep secrets from her. He doesn’t have to walk around her on tiptoes.

Which brings him to reason number 2 on his list, and that reason is Dean. It’s been weeks since he’s come back, raised from Hell by an angel of the Lord, no less, but somehow Sam still can’t really believe it’s real, it’s not just a dream. So most nights, he just lies awake, listening to Dean’s breathing, watching his brother’s dark silhouette in the bed next to him, just to make sure that Dean is real, that he’s truly here.

And that’s also how he knows about Dean’s nightmares, which is Sam’s reason number 3 for not being able to sleep. Admittedly, it’s not like Dean screams or thrashes in his sleep, and he doesn’t wake up screaming or in tears or anything like that. But sometimes, he makes those small, frightened, pained noises, almost whines, like a small kitten being hurt – and that is something Sam had never thought he would ever associate with Dean.

And when his brother wakes up from those nightmares he stubbornly denies having, he goes absolutely still, sometimes even holding his breath, like he’s trying to make himself appear as small and non-threatening as possible, hoping that if he stays this way long enough, whatever it is haunting his dreams will go away. But it always comes back the next night.

Sam already knows that Dean does remember what happened in Hell, but Dean still refuses to talk about it, and after a long conversation with Bobby and Ruby (not at the same time, of course), Sam’s decided not to pressure him.

He’s noticed that every time someone mentions Hell, Dean goes real quiet for a split second, kind of huddles up and gets real tense, sometimes even goes completely still, like if you pause a scene on TV. Sam remembers meeting one of Dad’s old buddies from the ‘Nam, a Marine who was a POW, and his reaction to anyone even mentioning the war was the same reaction Sam’s getting used to seeing on Dean’s face.

Dean is not alright, no matter how much he tries to cover it up with joking and flirting with girls and drinking too much alcohol.

Also, it’s not getting better.

Dean needs help, he needs protection. So Sam has to be strong, prepared for Lilith or whoever else will decide to go after them. He’ll be the one to save Dean this time, not the other way around.

Without turning the light on, he slips out of bed and gets dressed. He quietly gets the keys to the Impala from Dean’s jacket and walks over to the door, silent as not to wake Dean up, because Dean needs to sleep, and also Sam needs to keep his meetings with Ruby a secret.

It’s for Dean’s good.

 

 

**November 2008**

Although the salt and burn cases are usually pretty easy and straightforward, Dean doesn’t particularly like them. You dig the corpse out, salt it, burn it, you leave with aching muscles, sweaty and dirty, and all that often without even setting eyes on the spirit you’ve just put to rest. Kind of anti-climactic.

Once the water going down the shower drain finally stops being brownish, Dean turns the shower off and steps out, reaching for a towel.

When he hears the flap of wings, he doesn’t even jump anymore. He’s slowly getting used to the angelic visits; he has no other choice, seeing as they just keep coming. He quickly wraps the towel around his hips, though, talking to an angel while being stark naked just feels wrong.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets him in that gravelly voice that scratches at Dean’s soul.

“Castiel.” Dean starts the shower running again so Sam, who is just behind the thin bathroom door, can’t overhear their conversation. “What’s going on?”

“Your brother has been using his powers again,” the angel says, cutting straight to the chase.

Dean frowns, he doesn’t like where this is heading. “You mean when he killed Samhain?”

“Among other instances, yes.” Castiel gives Dean a look that is almost sympathetic. “He hasn’t been honest with you, Dean. You have to stop him.”

“Don’t you think I’m trying?”

Castiel leans over, so close Dean can feel his breath on his face. “Then try harder. If you don’t stop him–“

“Yeah, I know, then you will,” Dean interrupts him because he’s had enough of it already. “I’m warning you, don’t even think about doing something to him, you understand? If you hurt him in any way, I swear to Go– I swear I’ll kill you, angel or not.” And wow, did he just threaten an angel of the Lord while wearin only a towel?

Those crystal blue eyes narrow dangerously, sending a chill of fear down Dean’s spine. “Do I have to remind you that if you continue to treat me with such blatant disrespect, I could decide to spare myself the trouble and throw you back into Hell?”

Dean wishes he could say that threat is getting old, but the truth is it isn’t. His heart almost stops every time Castiel even hints at it. But that’s not important. What’s important is Sam. “Really? You think blackmailing me like that is gonna make me more obedient? Well, you’re wrong. And you know what? I think it’s time you stop with threatening my brother or I’ll just have to stop being your good little errand boy.”

Castiel doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, he just stares at Dean. “A piece of advice, Dean,” he says finally. “Do not show the depth of your affection for your brother so openly. It might be used against you in case you refuse to follow Heaven’s orders. Not all of us are as benevolent as I am.”

“What?”

The way Castiel’s expression never changes is really unnerving. “Make sure Sam stops using his dark powers. Do as you’re told and you might both actually get out of this alive.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

But Dean is alone in the room again.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters and starts toweling himself dry. His hands are shaking.

 

 

**April 2009**

Sam shuts his laptop closed and stands up, stretching his limbs with a groan. As he waves his arms around, it seems like he takes up most of the small motel room. “I’m gonna go get us some dinner.”

“Whoa, wait!” Dean stops him, palms against Sam’s chest – and it feels like touching a brick wall – and pushes him back away from the door. “You wanna go out there _alone_?”

“Well, yeah!” Batting Dean’s hands away, Sam makes another try for the door, only to have the path blocked by Dean again. He sighs and puts on his patient, tolerant face. “Look, I get that you’re worried about Lilith, but you can’t just hold me locked up here all the time or follow my every step. I have my hex bags and the anti-possession tattoo, there’s nothing else you can do. So stop worrying.”

He pushes past Dean and opens the door. “I just need some air, okay? Don’t expect me for a few hours.” And he’s gone.

“Fine, bitch,” Dean mutters as he watches Sam walking away through the window.

But actually, now that Sam’s gone and Dean has a couple of hours for himself, he kind of knows what he’s going to do with the time on his hands.

With a slightly guilty feeling, Dean opens Sam’s laptop and starts it, drumming his fingers nervously against the table as he waits for the screen to pop up. When it does, he looks around the room to check nobody’s there, because Cas really has a penchant for showing up in the most inappropriate moments possible. Sometimes Dean suspects the angel of doing it on purpose just so he can laugh at Dean’s expense.

Since no one seems to be here except Dean now, he connects to the motel’s crappy Wi-Fi and types _Supernatural fanfiction_ into Google’s search box. Several pages of links pop up and he scrolls down until he sees one site that has _Wincest_ in the title.

“I’m going back to Hell for this,” he whispers as he clicks on the link and starts reading.

He’s being silly and stupid, he knows that, but the knowledge that those fans – and Dean still can’t really wrap his head around the fact that there are people who find them and their lives interesting – see something between Sam and Dean, something deeper than brotherly love, and that they actually feel okay about it…

Somehow, it makes Dean feel like he’s maybe less crazy and fucked-up than he thought he was. Of course, the proper, logical way of looking at the whole Wincest thing would be coming to the conclusion that not only is Dean crazy and fucked-up, but there are other sick, perverted people like him. Which really shouldn’t be comforting at all.

But as Dean reads through the stories, he discovers that most of them are actually pretty good, sometimes so good that the scenes feel like something that could actually happen – except the incestuous sex with his own brother, naturally. The fans seem to see Dean’s love for Sam, and they understand it, describing it as something beautiful, exceptional, even pure.

Yeah, it’s silly and stupid and it’s not going to change anything, but just for a while, Dean becomes absorbed in those stories and allows himself to dream.

*

Admittedly, it gets a little weird when Dean writes and posts fanfiction of his own. If by _a little_ you mean _a whole fucking lot._

The fic isn’t long, just a couple of pages, and it’s mostly internal monologue. The title is _The Things Dean Will Never Tell Sam_ and it’s practically just that – Dean putting down on paper everything that’s been weighing down on him, everything that troubles his mind, everything he will never dare to say to Sam out loud.

He writes about it all. How he realizes what he feels for Sam is wrong and sick and how he will never act on those desires. How he regrets he couldn’t give Sam the life Sam’s always wanted. How he realizes he came back from Hell a changed man, only a shadow of his former self, pathetic and weak, unable to take care of himself, let alone take care of his brother. How the idea of letting the first monster they encounter rip his throat out so this would finally be over sounds so, so enticing. But how he’s not going to let that happen, because despite being so useless and broken, he is still determined to protect Sam with all he’s got left. How he’ll never give up on his brother and how he’ll never give up on loving him.

Just writing it all down, putting his thoughts into words, makes him feel better, taking some of the weight off his shoulders. Not much, of course, but even small progress is still progress, and Dean’s learned a long time ago to be thankful for every good thing that happens to him, no matter how small or insignificant it might be.

He even gets reactions from other fans. A lot of them praise his style, calling it efficient and yet very expressive. But they also seem to think his Dean sounds off-character.

 _IMO, you_ _made Dean too much of a woobie_ , in the words of a fan calling himself indigo_wendigo.

Another fan, SamNDean4Ever, says: _Don’t worry, it is a frequent mistake for first-time writers, but your Dean is kind of a Mary Sue. It feels like you project too much of your own personal issues into the fic. There is a strong undertow of self-depreciation and self-harm in your work, bordering on suicidal at times. Have you considered reaching out for professional help?_

Dean laughs out loud, laughs so hard his throat feels sore afterward. Tears start running down his face, and suddenly he’s not so sure whether he’s laughing or crying. But knowing himself, what a failure he’s become, it’s probably the latter.

 

 

**October 2009**

Dean pulls off his shirt with a grimace and a muttered curse, then adds another curse, this time louder, when he sees the hole in the fabric and the bloody stain on it. “Man, this was one of my favorites!”

And now it’s ruined. He throws it at the floor angrily, and the sudden careless movement reminds him that actually, he’s got bigger problems than a hole in his t-shirt. “Son of a bitch.”

“You alright?” Comes Sam’s worried voice from behind the half-closed door. “Need help?”

Leaning over the sink to look into the mirror, Dean examines the long gash that leads from his collarbone down almost to his navel. It doesn’t look that deep and it’s almost stopped bleeding by now, and with the help of the mirror, Dean could probably stitch it up by himself. It wouldn’t be the first time, either. There were lots of times when he had to patch himself up after a hunt without anyone’s assistance.

But he’s not alone now.

“Yeah, I could use a hand,” he calls back.

Almost immediately, Sam is by his side, watching Dean as if expecting him to pass out or something. “Okay, you should sit down,” he starts pushing Dean towards the toilet seat, closing the lid before making Dean sit.

“I’m not fatally wounded, you know,” Dean wants to grumble because he doesn’t like being babied like this, and he definitely doesn’t need it. He keeps his mouth shut, though, because a) sitting down _does_ seem to be a good idea, and b) this is a way how Dean can show Sam he really does trust him again without having to resort to using words.

Because when Dean has to talk, he always fucks it up somehow, says something he shouldn’t say, or doesn’t say something he should say. Or he says it the wrong way. Or whatever. How the Hell is a simple guy like him supposed to understand all that stuff anyway?

His whole life, Dean’s always showed his emotions, his opinions, through his actions. That’s what he’s good at, and that’s what he sticks to.

Sam’s still skittish around Dean, throwing surreptitious glances at him every five minutes to check that he’s doing alright, that Dean isn’t going to send him away again. He’s like a puppy that’s been kicked one too many times. Well, that has to stop. Dean said he wanted Sam back, he even gave him Ruby’s knife, for God’s sake, and still Sam acts like he’s expecting Dean to change his mind.

“Your hands are steadier than mine right now,” is what Dean says out loud. “Maybe you could just… you know,” he nods towards his chest, then has to fight back a smile when Sam practically beams with pride, as if Dean just named him king of the universe or something. Obviously, the kid really needs more support.

“Just wait here,” Sam runs out of the bathroom and scurries back a few moments later, holding their first aid kit and placing it on the floor next to the toilet. He grabs one of the towels hanging on the rack and wets it in warm water, then kneels on the tiles in front of Dean. “Gonna get the blood away first,” he says and Dean can sense his breath on his skin.

“You’re a real Florence Nightingale,” Dean quips just to break the silence, just to see Sam’s lips curve into a half-smile.

When he’s satisfied with cleaning the wound, Sam tosses the now bloody towel into the sink and opens the first aid kit, pulling out disinfection and the suture kit.

“Hold still,” Sam’s tongue peeks out as he concentrates. He’s really close to Dean now, and his hands feel good on Dean’s skin, even though Sam is very businesslike about this, doing what needs to be done with steady, skilled hands. But his touch is still gentle and almost electrifying, and if Dean wasn’t being stitched up right now, he’d surely be sporting a boner.

Dean hasn’t really gotten around much lately, actually, not at all since Anna, and with all the crazy apocalyptic stuff going around, there wasn’t even much opportunity for Dean to let off some steam the old-fashioned solitary way. And now Sam is right here, in front of him, and he’s alive and looking damn too good even in the sterile bathroom light, and he’s _Sam_ , which is actually all that’s really important to Dean.

Sam is beautiful. And even with all his flaws, he’ll always be perfect in Dean’s eyes. Dean just wishes he could make Sam see that.

“All done.” Sam stands up and washes his hands, turning away, remaining completely unaware of the feelings Dean holds for him.

“Thanks, Sammy.” Dean forces his emotions back under the mask he almost never takes off and gets up to look at himself in the mirror, nodding in satisfaction. “You did a pretty good job there. It’s gonna be a cool scar. And you know what?”

Sighing, Sam rolls his eyes and makes a show of not wanting to ask. “What?”

Dean waggles his eyebrows at Sam and grins. “Chicks digs scars.”

“You’re beyond redemption.”

Dean gives a shrug and offers Sam an unapologetic smile. “It’s been said before.”

Sam’s easy, amused laugh is the best sound Dean’s heard in a long, long time.

 

 

**December 2009**

It’s one of those dreams again.

_“Sam, please,” Dean whines, writhing under Sam’s heavier body, all points of contact burning desire into Sam’s skin. “Want you so much. Need you, need…” He’s almost incoherent by now, all raw nerves and trembling muscles and breathy moans, dependent on Sam in a way that’s beyond natural yet still feels so good._

_“See? This is the amount of power you have over him,” Lucifer’s voice comes from the corner of the room where he stands, slouched, hands in the pockets of his jeans. “You could make him do anything. He would give you anything. He’s all yours.”_

_“Yeah, all yours,” Dean repeats, the words stuttering past his spit-slick, shiny lips. His eyes flutter closed, like he has no more strength left in his body. “Sammy, please…”_

_Sam runs one hand down Dean’s cheek, surprised to find it wet with tears. He’s really pushed Dean’s limits today, but like always, Dean just took it and asked for more. Such a good boy. “It’s alright, Dean. I’ve got you now. You’ve done good.” Sam kisses those full, unresisting lips before lining himself up and finally pushing inside with a blissful groan._

_It feels better than anything he’s ever experienced in his life._

_There’s a chuckle from Lucifer. “You want Dean, Sam? Say yes to me, let me in, and you can have him. You can have anything you want, you can…”_

_But Sam’s not listening to the devil anymore, zoning him out, letting the world around him fall away until the only thing that’s left is Dean’s soft, pliant body under his, accepting Sam, loving Sam, wanting Sam just as much as Sam wants Dean._

“Gah!” Sam sits up, scrabbling around for the bedside lamp, turning the light on. He looks around the room, searches the corners for Lucifer’s figure, but there is nobody here.

Nobody but Dean, who’s also sitting on his bed, observing Sam with an amused expression. “Must’ve been one Hell of a dream, judging by the happy noises you were making.”

Sam frowns. “What?”

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean stretches his limbs before leaning back against the headboard. “I’m glad you got some action, even if it was just in a dream.”

God, Sam can’t be discussing this with his brother. Not now.

“Cat got your tongue?” Dean obviously finds this very funny. “Who were you dreaming about anyway?” He sits up straighter and leans towards Sam’s bed with a gleeful smirk. “Me?”

It’s meant as a joke that’s supposed to gross Sam out, Sam knows that, but still he can’t stop the blush that starts spreading all over his face. Hoping to hide his body’s reaction, he quickly looks away.

“So you _were_ dreaming about me?” Dean sounds almost excited by the idea, no doubt happy that he’s just acquired enough ammo to use against Sam for a lifetime. “Don’t be ashamed, it’s only natural. I’m just that irresistible.”

“Shut up.”

“C’mon, Sam!”

“I didn’t mean to, it’s Lucifer’s fault,” Sam starts babbling, words coming out of his mouth without his volition, and he can’t stop talking now that he’s started, like his soul is trying to unburden itself of its sins. “He’s putting stuff in my dreams, I guess he’s trying to seduce me into going darkside, and I didn’t ask for this…”

The grin disappears from Dean’s face, quickly replaced by worry. “He’s still creeping into your dreams?”

“Yeah, and he keeps planting these ideas in my head,” Sam admits dejectedly, throwing another stealthy glance at his brother to assess his mood.

Dean still looks more curious than angry or disgusted. “Like what? Fucking me?”

Cheeks burning, Sam nods minutely. “Well, yeah, among other things, if you must know.” He looks away again.

A huff of breath comes from Dean. “And you really liked it!”

“What? No!” But the words are said too fast, Sam surely gave himself away now.

“You did!” Dean is grinning. Why is he grinning? “Little brother, you like dreaming about fucking me!” Dean has this look on his face, and it’s totally out of place, because it looks like joy, like relief, like _finally_. It makes no sense to Sam at all. He’s probably imagining it.

“And if I did?” He asks, because it’s all lost anyway, there’s no point in denying anything. Sam doesn’t even try to defend himself anymore, just waits for the insults or punches, or maybe a bullet to the head, because this isn’t right at all, normal at all, this just means how far from human he’s come, and he has to be stopped before things get out of–

And then there’s a blur of movement from Dean and then there are warm, plush yet definitely male lips on Sam’s, and there’s a wet, slick tongue demanding entrance and Sam opens up instinctively and kisses back before he realizes this is him and this is Dean and he pushes his brother – God, his _brother_! – away.

Dean, now sitting just inches away from Sam, doesn’t look nervous or anxious or anything like that, though. He just holds Sam’s gaze and his lips are parted and spit-slick and slightly kiss-swollen (just like in Sam’s dream) when he speaks. “If you wanted me, all you ever had to do was ask.”

“What?!” Sam tries to get some distance between them, but Dean’s hand snaps out and his fingers wrap around Sam’s wrist, holding him where he is, relatively gently yet very decisively.

“I said,” Dean speaks slowly, holding Sam’s gaze with his hypnotizing, emerald eyes, “if you want me, all you have to do is ask.”

It still doesn’t make any sense. “What?” Sam is shaking and sweating and his heart is racing as if he’s just ran a Marathon.

“Sam,” Dean reaches out with his other hand, placing it gently in the center of Sam’s chest. He keeps it there, and just its simple presence somehow manages to calm Sam down, centering him, allowing him to concentrate on what Dean is saying. “I’ve gotta tell you something. Please don’t get mad at me.”

“Okay?”

Now it seems like Dean’s having problems breathing and speaking without stammering, but he carries on anyway. “I’ve wanted you for years, Sam. Dreamt about you. Fantasized about you.”

For a while, Sam’s brain is stuck, then another while is spent processing those words, and only when Sam is sure he got it right, he asks, just to be sure, “You mean like…” He can’t say it out loud, so instead, he nods towards his crotch.

Dean follows the direction of his gaze and nods. “Yeah. Like that.”

More silence follows as Sam’s world is being turned upside down. Then Sam realizes something. “Dean, why didn’t you ever…?”

“What, say something? Do something?” The hand on Sam’s chest disappears as Dean rubs at his face. “First, I was pretty sure you didn’t return the sentiment. And second, I really didn’t want to corrupt you with my fucked up mind. So I kept my mouth shut.”

“Wow.” Sam can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for Dean, but he’s pretty sure it wasn’t easy and absently, he has to admire Dean’s self-control. If he wanted Sam all these years they spent practically living together... It must’ve been sheer torture.

Only then does Sam realize that he’s not… disgusted, or appalled, or offended. Which he probably should be. It’s all very confusing.

“It’s funny, though,” Dean is staring at his hands now. “Lucifer using dreams like that against you. He’s an evil son of a bitch, but he’s smart, I’ll give him that. He had to know he’d get under your skin with stuff like that.” He meets Sam’s eyes again, licking his lips nervously. “Which means he’s offering you something you actually do want.”

“I didn’t want it!” Sam protests immediately, but when he sees the hurt expression on his brother’s face as Dean shrinks back from him, he quickly corrects himself. “I didn’t want it _at first_. At least, not consciously. Never thought about it before, you know? But I guess you’re right, it must’ve been inside me, because…”

“Because?” Dean is hanging on Sam’s every word, like what Sam says can change the course of his life. And maybe it really can.

There’s no turning back now, though, so Sam goes on. “Because gradually I started appreciating those dreams. Even though I hated myself for enjoying them at the same time. I thought something must be wrong with me.”

“Sam!” Dean’s hands are cupping Sam’s face, drawing him closer, not allowing him to look away. “There is _nothing_ wrong with you, okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Obviously unwilling to give up, Dean presses on. “Come on, Sammy. Don’t let Lucifer use me against you. Don’t let him use _us_ against you. You want me? You can have me and you don’t have to go darkside to do so.”

Sam lets out a mirthless laugh. “In case you haven’t noticed, incest _is_ kind of darkside.”

“Well fuck that.” Judging by the now almost painful way Dean’s fingers are digging into Sam’s face, Dean is starting to get angry. “We hunt monsters, we bleed for the people who have no idea we even exist, and we should care about their stupid rules? Hell no.”

It sounds very convenient and Sam wants to believe it. “You’re making this sound so easy.”

“It _can_ be easy,” Dean insists, voice turning pleading and urgent. “We can make it easy, you and me.” He leans in, close enough to share Sam’s air, but far enough to leave the last step to Sam, giving him the opportunity to pull back, to stop this before it goes too far.

And Sam leans away.

Dean lets go of Sam’s face immediately, dropping his hands back to his lap. The myriad of raw emotions that was playing on his face just moments ago is quickly replaced by something Sam can’t decipher. He’s closing off, already accepting Sam’s refusal.

But that’s not what Sam wants him to think. “Dean, I’m not saying no.” He relaxes a little when he sees some life creeping back into Dean. “I just need some time to process it; I need to think about it, alright? It’s kind of a big deal.”

Nodding, Dean smiles sheepishly. “Yeah. If you only knew.”

“Just give me a few days, okay? To figure it out, decide what I really want.”

“Okay.” Dean goes back to his bed and slips under the covers, but he’s still looking at Sam, intent and serious. “When you decide, I’ll be here. _Whatever_ you decide, I’ll be here.”

And Sam can hear the promise behind those words. Dean will stay with him and love him even if Sam wants them to stay the way they were up until now, just brothers.

“Thanks, Dean.”

“Sure.”

The light is turned off, the room swallowed by darkness and silence, but it is a long time before Sam manages to fall asleep. He has no more dreams of the having sex with Dean variety, maybe because he’s starting to seriously consider doing it for real.

*

Sam doesn’t really get much chance to think about Dean’s offer in the following few days. When they’re working, all that Sam really thinks about it getting the job done without getting killed. When they’re driving from one town to another, he’s usually so tired that he just huddles up in his seat and sleeps, comfortable in the knowledge that with Dean next to him, he’s as safe as he can be. And at night, it’s Dean’s turn to fall into exhausted sleep, leaving Sam to do his thinking in private.

It turns out there’s not really that much to think about. It almost scares Sam, how easy it is for him to accept the idea of touching Dean, kissing Dean, making love to Dean.

Because that’s what this is about. It’s not just lust, it’s a sense of closeness, of belonging, and Sam guesses it’s always been there, from the beginning. An invisible yet unstoppable force that always draws the brothers back together, no matter how much the whole universe is trying to pull them apart.

But it’s the little things that Sam notices the most. Like how warmth and joy spreads through him when Dean is happy, singing along to his music or laughing at one of his own silly jokes. Or how Sam’s world turns dull and grey when Dean is hurt or miserable, quiet and withdrawn, eyes dead. And how the same can be said about Dean.

They spent most of their lives together, often with nobody else to keep them company. They’ve always looked out for each other, sacrificed themselves for each other, killed and died for each other.

Maybe taking the next step in their relationship isn’t as crazy as it seems. Funnily, it doesn’t even sound like a radical change, more like a natural progression, something inevitable that was meant to happen from the beginning.

 _I’ll burn in Hell for this_ , Sam thinks before dreamless sleep finally claims him.

*

It takes several more days for Sam to gather up the courage to inform Dean of his decision. To Dean’s credit, he never once asked about it or even hinted at it, carefully keeping the distance between them while at the same time not being exactly distant. Sam hadn’t even realized Dean had it in him to be so considerate.

But it’s time to cut to the chase. No more stalling, no more excuses.

Sam gives himself a quick once-over in the mirror. He’s just showered and washed his hair, but he hasn’t shaved, because it would feel weird doing it before going to bed just because he _might_ be kissing Dean tonight. He’s wearing his boxers and also a t-shirt, because he doesn’t think a conversation as serious as the one he’s just going to have should be led without a shirt on.

“Here we go,” he mutters and opens the door, stepping across the threshold, both literally and figuratively.

Dean’s already in bed, lying on his back, head propped on one arm, staring at the ceiling.

“Uh, Dean?” Not sure whether to stay standing or sit down, and if so, then whether to sit on his own bed or on Dean’s, Sam starts pacing across the room instead just so he doesn’t fidget.

“Mmm?”

“I’ve decided.”

Dean doesn’t ask “Decided about what?”. He just sits up, looking at his brother expectantly with suddenly big, almost scared eyes. He’s scared Sam will say no.

Sam is blushing again. It doesn’t happen to him very often, because usually he has no reason to blush, no reason to be ashamed of anything. It certainly doesn’t happen every day to him that he proposes having a sexual relationship with his own brother. Oh, God.

Noticing Sam’s growing distress, Dean jumps up from the bed and is standing next to Sam in seconds, hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Sammy, it’s okay. I understand, and I’m not mad or offended or anything, really. I get it.”

“No, you clearly don’t,” Sam places his hands on Dean’s shoulders in return, feeling the warm flesh under Dean’s old, worn t-shirt. “I want to try it. Us, together.”

The substantial change in Dean’s demeanor is instantaneous. It’s like he immediately melts – because you can’t call this simple relaxing – under Sam’s touch, and he looks five years younger than he did just seconds before, his face worry-free, eyes shining. “Sam, are you serious?”

“Damn serious.”

The excitement and joy on Dean’s face reminds Sam of a kid staring at the presents under the Christmas tree. “So can I kiss you now?”

Instead of replying, Sam pulls Dean closer and Dean goes, and then they’re kissing. Slow and languorous, lazy, the slick and slide of tongue against tongue, swallowing each other’s moans, smoothing rough palms against each other’s skin.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters against Sam’s lips. Wrapping his arms around Sam’s neck, he tilts his head back and lets his eyes wander across Sam’s face before rising on his tiptoes to kiss him again.

Sam’s never been more conscious of the height difference between them in his whole life than he is now, and he can’t help wonder whether this is new to Dean, kissing someone taller, since Dean’s a pretty tall guy himself. He should ask about it later.

Yeah. Later. When Dean’s not grinding his erection into Sam’s, making them both moan and shudder, wanting more.

“Fuck me,” comes a breathless, hoarse whisper from Dean, who’s suddenly pushing Sam away, at arm’s length, probably so he can look him in the eye without having to crane his head. “I want you to fuck me.”

Sam’s cock twitches in his boxers, obviously on board with the idea. Some brain cells in Sam’s head must still be functioning though, because he stutters out a “What? Now?”

“No, when we’re eighty,” Dean rolls his eyes, for a moment looking like the older brother annoyed with his younger sibling’s idiocy before going straight back to the touch-hungry, needy creature. “Come on. Do it now.”

It’s really hard to resist, but Sam’s always prided himself with a strong will. “Shouldn’t we… I don’t know, wait?”

The annoyed older sibling is back. “Seriously?” Dean’s voice is higher than usual. “What did you expect? Candles? Flowers? A profession of my undying love?” He chuckles softly, looking down before throwing a defiant, daring glance at Sam. “Because if you hadn’t noticed, you already kind of have that. You always have.”

“I know,” Sam says stupidly, because he really does know, although he hadn’t realized before that Dean’s love for him went further than a brother’s love usually goes. “But I’m still not sure…”

With a dramatic sigh, Dean plops himself on the bed. “I want it. Judging by that monster in your pants, you want it too.”

Sam shifts his weight nervously. This is really bizarre. “I do, I’ve told you. But aren’t we taking this a bit too fast?”

“Sam, I’ve wanted your dick in my ass for _ages_ ,” Dean goes for bluntness, and the way he says it does something very strange to Sam’s insides. “So you’re gonna have to excuse me for being a little impatient.”

“Right.” Sam starts pacing again.

“I can get some music, if you want,” Dean offers, not giving up. “How about some Bad Company? Fucked an angel to those tunes.”

“So you did sleep with Cas!” Huh. If Ruby was still alive, Sam would owe her fifty bucks.

“What?” Dean’s face scrunches up. “No! Anna, you moron!”

“Oh. But you and Cas always…”

“Always what?”

“You give each other these looks,” Sam doesn’t really know how to explain it, but it’s something you can’t _not_ notice when you see these two together. “He’s always standing so close to you and you always let him.”

Dean snorts and shakes his head, clearly amused by the whole misunderstanding. “Nah, that’s just…” He smiles fondly. “That’s just the way I am with Cas.”

Like that explains anything. Which it totally doesn’t, but there are more important questions at hand, questions Sam has been meaning to ask ever since Dean’s admission of wanting him those days ago, “So, are you into sex with guys generally or just me?”

With a self-confident smirk, Dean stretches out his arms, revealing a strip of skin as his t-shirt rides up. Sam’s sure he did it on purpose, but he’s still unable to resist looking at that skin. “Sammy, I’m generally into sex, period.”

Taking the new info in, Sam frowns. “So you’ve actually… done it with a guy before?”

“Yeah.” Dean frowns back at Sam, confused. “Haven’t you?”

This conversation is unbelievable. “No. Only in those dreams.” Great. Now he’s blushing again.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean’s lopsided grin is a harbinger of chaos and mayhem as he approaches Sam, placing his hands on Sam’s hips. “’S what I’m here for. Show you the ropes, teach you all you need to know.”

The bastard’s irresistible, and he knows it, damn him. Sam has no other choice but to nod. “Okay.”

“C’mere.” Dean kisses him again. His lips are soft and full and yet at the same time unlike any woman’s that Sam’s ever kissed, hard and unyielding, a bit rough, and there’s stubble prickling Sam’s skin… And those hands. Dean apparently has very grabby hands, like he can’t believe this is really happening, like he can’t get enough of him. It’s addictive and when Dean pulls back, Sam whines, missing the contact already.

Dean grabs a chair from the table by the window and pushes Sam into it. “Now make yourself comfortable and watch, little brother,” he says and it sounds like the dirtiest thing Sam’s ever heard.

Opening the side pocket of his duffel, Dean pulls out a bottle of lube and throws it onto his bed. Then, turning to face Sam, he pulls his shirt over his head and throws it on the floor. It’s not the first time Sam’s seen him shirtless, but it is the first time he really appreciates the view.

And God, what a view it is. Dean’s all broad, strong shoulders and hard, toned muscle.

Before Sam gets himself under control enough to come up with some sort of a compliment, his remaining brain cells are killed when Dean takes off his boxers and kneels on the bed, facing Sam. “Just watch,” he says in a voice that Sam can’t disobey. Dean’s like a large cat, powerful and deadly yet still elegant, as he lays back, head propped on a pillow so he can watch Sam watching him. He lets his legs fall open and starts fisting his thick cock slowly.

It’s like a whole new side of Dean that Sam’s never seen, and not just for the obvious reasons. The Dean that the outside world knows, the Dean that Sam knows, is all hard edges and efficient, calculated movements. But as if he shed his tough hunter persona together with his clothes, this Dean is different, he moves with smooth, fluid _grace_ , which is a word Sam never would’ve expected to associate with his brother.

“You’re so hot,” Sam stares, transfixed. His own cock is so hard it actually hurts and he palms it through his boxers, groaning.

“Then keep watching. It’s only gonnat get better,” Dean drawls, the porn star smirk firmly on, like he’s well aware of his good looks and what they’re doing to Sam. He spreads his legs wider, one bent at the knee, and grabs the bottle of lube, squirting some of the liquid into his palm.

In the past few days, when he had the time and privacy, Sam’s done some research, and he wasn’t really exactly clueless about the mechanics of gay sex before either, because, hey, 21st century, but still, theoretically knowing it and watching it happen are two completely different things. His breath hitches when Dean’s fingers skim past his cock and heavy balls to circle the dark ring of muscle behind. One slick fingertip is pressed inside, then out, then in again, deeper.

“Does that… actually feel good?”

The finger is fully inside, soon followed by a second one. “Damn good,” Dean rumbles, then as if to confirm his words, moans low and deep in his throat in reaction to something he does with those fingers. "One day, I’m gonna show you just how good. Spread you wide open and make you fall apart from the inside.”

A new wave of heat and want rolls through Sam at the seductive purr in Dean’s voice. He already knows that when Dean decides to make good on his offer, Sam will say yes in a heartbeat.

Fascinated, Sam watches Dean’s fingers push into that tiny hole. There’s no way his cock is gonna fit in there. He says so out loud.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dean mutters with a cocky smirk. “And get rid of those clothes.”

Sam obeys the order without thinking, and before he has the time to feel shy or insecure, his clothes are an untidy pile on the floor and he’s standing there naked.

“You’re the most perfect man I’ve ever seen,” Dean whispers with awe as his gaze wanders across Sam’s body, hungry and longing, adoring Sam like he’s something sacred. “Oh God, Sam.” He lets out a long, shaky breath. “Need you in me. Please.”

And how can Sam say no to a request like that?

He climbs onto the bed, covering Dean’s body with his, and they both gasp at the contact of skin on skin. Their mouths meet in a fierce, wild kiss that leaves them both breathless.

“Let me turn over,” Dean suggests, already trying to do so. “It’s gonna be easier for you the first time.”

“Um… okay?” Sam crawls back and watches as Dean rolls around and gets to hands and knees.

He looks over his shoulder at Sam, a mischievous curl to his lips. “What you waiting for?” He spreads his legs and bows his back, raising his ass in blatant, shameless invitation that Sam doesn’t even attempt to resist.

Grabbing the lube still lying on the bed, Sam slathers himself up quickly and settles between Dean’s legs, staring at that pink, glistening hole. He’s really going to do this.

He decides to take some time to admire the view before him first, though. The elegant arch of Dean’s spin, the sharp shoulder blades, the powerful breadth of his shoulders, the swell of his ass.

“Are you waiting for a written invitation?”

“No.” He positions his cock at Dean’s entrance, holding in in place with one hand and setting the other on Dean’s side. Then, going as slow as he can, he pushes.

It’s tight and hot and silky smooth. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, that’s the idea,” Dean retorts, but his voice is shaking a little and so are his arms. He’s not as unaffected as he pretends to be, Sam notes with a hint of satisfaction.

Holding onto Dean’s hips with both hands now, Sam pushes in deeper, fighting against the resisting muscle.

Dean breathes out, voice tight and controlled like he’s in pain and doesn’t want to show it, “Fuck, you _are_ huge.”

Later, Sam is going to feel smug about that, but right now, there’s only concern. “You want me to stop?”

With an affronted look thrown over one shoulder, Dean answers, “Don’t you dare! It’s just been some time for me, so go slow, okay?”

And Sam does, running his palms across Dean’s trembling body as Dean takes him in inch by inch, his hands fisting the sheets, knuckles white, face buried in the pillows that swallow most of the small, keening sounds he’s making. Suddenly Dean raises his head a little so his words aren’t muffled by the pillow. “Sammy, stop. Just… gimme a minute.” He’s tense under Sam’s hands, panting loudly, his skin shiny with sweat as he works to get himself under control. Then, “Okay. Go on.”

Once Sam is finally fully inside, buried to the hilt, it’s _perfect_ and he just wants to stay like that, forever.

“Sam?” Dean raises his head, back on all fours now, and practically glares at him. “How about you start moving?” He accompanies his words with a slight movement of his hips that jolts Sam back to full awareness.

Slowly, Sam pulls almost completely out and then goes back in, watching with fascination as Dean’s asshole swallows him hungrily, pulling him into its tight heat. He wants to see more of it and so he skirts his hands down Dean’s flanks to place them on his cheeks, pulling the flesh further apart to get a clearer view of where his cock disappears into Dean, to see how he stretches the tight ring of muscle wide open.

“More,” Dean’s voice is deep and a little hoarse as he meets Sam’s slow thrusts with his own. His back is arched, head thrown back in pleasure, and as he moves, muscles ripple under his skin. “Come on, Sammy,” he almost whines, needy.

Alright. Dean wants it hard and fast? He’ll have it hard and fast.

Brows furrowed in concentration, Sam speeds up the pace and lets some of his self-control go, his hips acting on their own accord, slamming into Dean, accompanied by the loud, almost obscene sounds of flesh slapping against flesh.

“Yeah.” Breath hitching, Dean drops his head back to the pillow and he braces both hands against the headboard so he can meet Sam’s every thrust, ass up, no shame, only want; no holding back, wordlessly offering everything he has for Sam to take. Signaling with his whole body the unspoken  _I’m yours_.

This is almost too much for Sam. He digs his fingers deep into Dean’s lean hips, hard enough to leave bruises, but more importantly to get a good enough grasp to be able to slam Dean back onto his cock with all the strength he has, and Dean lets him, pushing back, asking for more yet. “Not gonna break, Sammy.”

Sam’s heart is hammering in his chest and blood is pumping in his ears and he can’t seem to be able to form a coherent thought. “God, Dean,” he barely manages to get the words past his lips before the world around him blurs and slowly disappears until all that’s left are their gasps and cries of pleasure and the points where their bodies meet, the wet warmth of sweat-slick, flushed skin, the fluttering tightness around Sam’s cock, and then Sam’s balls are drawing up and he comes harder than ever. His muscles betray him then and he collapses on top of Dean, bent over his trembling body.

“Get off me,” Dean grumbles, wriggling and twisting under Sam until he gets free and Sam sinks onto the bed next to him, boneless.

At that moment Sam realizes that he completely forgot about Dean’s needs. “Oh, shit,” he reaches around with one shaky hand, aiming for Dean’s cock, but before he actually gets there, Dean stops him by entwining their fingers and placing their hands on his chest, across his wildly beating heart.

“I’m good, Sammy,” he gives a smile that looks pleasantly tired and sated.

Confused, Sam musters enough energy to raise his head and look down Dean’s body, finding Dean’s cock limp and spent, come drying on his belly. He pushes himself up until he’s sitting and looks down at Dean, who just watches him with a strangely calm expression. “Dean, did you–“

“Come without a hand on my cock?” Dean offers helpfully, flat out grinning now. He takes in a deep breath and stretches his body, all the while keeping his eyes locked with Sam’s. “Told you I’ve wanted this for a long time.”

Wow. Sam doesn’t know what to say.

Dean draws his lower lip between his teeth, then releases it slowly, and it’s one of the hottest sights in Sam’s life. “I knew you’d be all wild and rough.” He makes it sound like it’s the best thing that ever happened to him.

How is he even possible?

“Dude, stop gaping at me!” Dean tugs at Sam’s arm until Sam settles himself back on the bed next to him, then suddenly starts pushing Sam away.

“Dean, what the Hell?”

Standing up, Dean drags him up and across the room to Sam’s unmade bed. Still feeling more than just a little wobbly and weak in the knees, Sam obediently follows. “We’re not sleeping in _that_ bed if we have a clean one.” He holds up the covers. “Go on,” he motions for Sam to slide under and Sam really doesn’t have to be told twice.

Dean disappears in the bathroom and comes back with a wet washcloth. He gives Sam a quick clean up, then he’s gone again and Sam hears water running in the bathroom. And how come Dean has so much energy left, anyway? It’s totally unfair.

Sam’s almost asleep by the time Dean slips into the bed, but he immediately snuggles up to his brother’s warm, firm body. With a soft, affectionate chuckle, Dean draws him even closer and plants a quick kiss on Sam’s cheek.

That’s all Sam remembers. Then he’s out.

*

Sam wakes up in the morning feeling rested and content.

The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Dean’s face inches from his own. Dean’s awake, watching him intently with those big green eyes, and from the short distance, Sam can see all those freckles peppering his skin.

Dean smiles at him but doesn’t say anything, so Sam uses the opportunity to continue his exploration of Dean’s face without interruptions.

First he finds himself fascinated by the insanely long, thick, curled eyelashes. Jess had eyelashes like that, but Sam knows she’d spent a lot of time and effort to make them look so perfect, while Dean, the ungrateful bastard, just happens to be that way naturally.

Below the straight, freckled nose, Sam’s attention is drawn to Dean’s plush, perfectly shaped lips, and once again the memory of Jess comes to his mind. As he thinks about it, he realizes she was like Dean in a lot of ways. Beautiful, fierce, independent, took no bullshit from anyone. Is it possible that Sam had loved her because of all those similarities to…? No, that’s taking it too far.

“What’s got you frowning so early in the morning?” Dean asks and Sam can feel his warm breath on his skin.

“You’re beautiful.”

Dean laughs softly. “Never been called that before. And right back atcha.” He leans in for a gentle kiss, no tongue, just lips, slow and savoring, and he moans against Sam when Sam responds.

Suddenly Sam’s brain catches up with him and realizes what they’ve done and God… He jumps out of the bed, away from Dean, like Dean’s radioactive. He looks around the room desperately, finds his jeans and starts pulling them on, not bothering with briefs.

Dean follows him out of bed, naked, so Sam can’t not notice he’s half-hard. “Sam, what’s wrong? You having second thoughts about this?”

It’s not that simple. “No, no, I just…” Sam doesn’t really know what to say, though. It’s all one big mess inside his head and the sight of his brother, naked and tempting, doesn’t help at all.

Dean steps up to him and stabs one finger into the center of Sam’s chest. “If you say this was a mistake, I’m gonna punch you.”

“No, of course not, I’m just not sure it was the right thing to do…”

Dean punches him.

*

Sam stands under the warm spray of water, eyes closed. He presses his fingers against his chin experimentally, finding the spot there slightly sore. There’s surely gonna be a bruise.

He can’t force himself to be angry about it, though. He understands that the punch was just Dean’s way of expressing how much he wants Sam, how much he wants them to be together. In a way, it was actually Dean saying “I love you”, and while that might be somewhat disturbing, it’s also so typically _Dean_ that Sam wouldn’t want it any other way.

*

It also doesn’t hurt when Dean decides to make it up to Sam with a blowjob. He sneaks into the shower behind him and tries to do it right there, but the shower stall is too small for two grown men of their size and so Sam lets himself be persuaded to move things back into the bedroom.

“Gonna make you feel so good,” Dean manages to say between heated kisses that leave them both breathless and achingly hard, their naked erections brushing. “So good.” He maneuvers Sam around a bit, until Sam’s back hits the wall.

Gracefully, Dean sinks to his knees and looks up at Sam through those ridiculous eyelashes. His face is close to Sam’s straining cock, but suddenly he’s acting as if he doesn’t even see it and just stares at Sam. His mouth is slightly parted and he licks his lips, leaving them wet and glistening and really, why does he do this to Sam?

“Dean, please.”

With a smirk, Dean leans in closer, still keeping his head tilted up so they can maintain eye contact. “Can’t say no, since you ask so nicely.” He rests one hand on Sam’s thigh for support while grabbing hold of Sam’s cock with the other, and just that first touch of his fingers makes Sam gasp out loud and buck wildly. “Easy, Sammy. No rush.” He runs the pad of his thumb across the purple head before gripping the base firmly so he can lick a long stripe from Sam’s balls to the tip.

Sam’s legs go weak immediately and now he’s thankful for the support of the wall behind him. He groans loudly, not attempting to hold the sound back.

Obviously satisfied, Dean opens his mouth and – _fuck!_ – takes Sam in almost down to the root, swallows around him, then pulls back to suck at the head.

“Oh God.”

With a happy hum that only makes things worse for Sam, Dean takes him in again, even deeper than before, so deep that Sam can actually feel where he’s pressing against the back of Dean’s throat.

Sam can’t help but wonder where Dean learned deepthroating. Nobody’s ever done that to Sam before, simply because this is the stuff normal people really _don’t do_ , it’s the stuff you see in porn and wonder how is it even physically possible. Only apparently it is possible and Dean can do it like a pro, sucking all rational thoughts out of Sam through his cock. He’s moaning around him, the sound obscene, unreal, with his pink lips stretched around the shaft and he’s looking up at Sam with a smug “told you so” expression. Sam is sure that if Dean’s mouth wasn’t busy, he’d be grinning like crazy.

With the combined sensory and audiovisual stimulation, Sam knows he won’t be able to hold back for long. It takes all of his willpower just to keep himself under control enough so he doesn’t just start thrusting into the wet suction of Dean’s mouth.

As if reading his thoughts, Dean places both hands on Sam’s thighs, pulling him closer, urging him to let go.

“Really?” Sam wants to make sure first.

Dean snorts and somehow manages to convey his annoyance even with his mouth full of cock. He doesn’t attempt to pull back to actually say anything though, so Sam takes that as a yes and does what Dean asked him to, fisting both hands in Dean’s short hair to hold his head in place and snapping his hips forwards sharply.

Dean makes an appreciative, encouraging sound and doesn’t fight Sam, holding still in his grasp, letting him fuck into his mouth with abandon.

It’s not long before Sam cries out and shoots his load down Dean’s throat. Dean swallows it all, eyes closed like he’s savoring the taste. He licks his lips afterward, like a cat licks cream.

Sam pulls him up so they’re both standing, then swaps their places quickly, Dean standing against the wall and Sam on his knees before him. He’s never done this before, obviously, but he wants to return the favor and now’s as a good time as any to try.

The hard, angry-looking cock that bobs in front of his face seems much bigger now than it did just moments ago, though.

“You don’t have to,” Dean rasps from above and cradles Sam’s face in his palms, forcing him to look up. He’s just never going to give up the protective big brother act, is he?

“I want to,” Sam objects stubbornly and sticks out his tongue, licking at the leaking head experimentally.

That draws a sharp hiss from Dean, clearly a sound of pleasure, but still Dean pushes him away gently. “Then let me lie down on the bed, so you can have more control of the situation,” he tries, insistent.

“Stop treating me like a baby,” Sam almost snaps, because he really doesn’t need to be treated with kid gloves. To prove his point, he parts his lips and wraps them around the thick head of Dean’s cock.

“Fuck, Sammy, you’re gonna kill me,” Dean wheezes out and his fingers run through Sam’s hair gently, comforting and encouraging at the same time.

It’s not even as weird as Sam expected to be – although he’s going to have to take same time getting used to the taste – so he tries to take more of Dean in. He doesn’t get too far before he starts gagging though, so he pulls back until it’s comfortable and concentrates on keeping his lips tight around the hot flesh, pressing at the underside with his tongue occasionally. What he can’t take into his mouth, he jacks with a firm grip of his hand.

Dean’s fingers in Sam’s hair are getting rougher and Sam can hear his brother’s hitched breaths and gasps. “S-Sam…”

He can’t possibly be that good, this is the first time he’s doing it and he must look like a mess, drool running down his chin, nothing like Dean’s pornstar-worthy performance, but apparently he must be doing it well enough, because Dean’s moans are getting louder and more desperate by the second and it makes Sam proud that he’s the one causing it, he’s the one who’s stripping Dean’s self-control away. Soon Dean breathes out a shaky “Sammy” and “Gonna–“ and tries to push Sam off, but Sam gets his intention and doesn’t let him do it, and when Dean comes with a low, drawn-out grunt, Sam swallows it all.

Before he can get up, Dean’s on the ground, kneeling next to Sam, kissing him like he’s drowning and Sam is oxygen, biting and sucking his way into Sam’s mouth while his hands roam all over Sam’s body, like he’s trying to be everywhere at once.

Soon they’re both hard again, but Sam’s not going to complain at all.

*

It takes another hour or so before they disentangle themselves from the disorderly mess of limbs and sheets, and when they do, the whole room reeks of sex.

“Dibs on the first shower,” Sam calls quickly and runs to the bathroom.

Dean stays in the door, leaning against the doorframe. He’s still naked and he looks exactly like he should – fucked out, hair mussed and sticking to his face in places, bites and bruises and scratches all over his skin and a big stupid smile on his lips.

They manage to take turns in the shower without starting another round of sex, which is kind of a shame, but as Dean puts it while he’s getting dressed, “If Batman didn’t spend all his time fucking then neither should we. Oh, the things we sacrifice for the sake of humanity…”

“You and that whole Batman thing.”

“Not a word against Batman!”

They’re both grinning and the mood between them is lighter and more open than it’s been in years, probably. It’s almost too good to be true.

“Hello, Dean,” comes the distinctive low, gruff voice and Castiel is standing between them, in the middle of the room. Sam curses himself for jinxing it. The angel nods toward him. “Sam.”

Dean finds his tongue first, but that’s not exactly a shock since he’s been the one getting surprise angelic visits for over a year now. “Cas?”

The angel approaches him with a slight frown. “I felt something happen. A change.”

Responding with a worried frown of his own, Dean asks, “Where? Something about Lucifer?”

“No,” Castiel tilts his head to one side, then shifts his weight, looking almost uncertain. “Here.”

Oh, fuck. Cas means _them_ , what they did. Sam feels himself start panicking and he’s normally pretty good under pressure, but this is different, and he’d gladly take facing Lilith or Lucifer himself over facing Castiel right now.

He throws what he hopes is a surreptitious glance in Dean’s direction, searching his eyes for guidance, for help, but Dean seems to be as lost as Sam feels.

Castiel catches them looking at each other, of course, and his frown grows deeper. “You two…”

 _We have to act normal_ , Sam realizes, but somehow he can’t, and he can see that Dean isn’t faring much better – he actually stuffs his hands in his pockets and starts whistling, which, obvious much? But then, Cas isn’t human, so maybe he doesn’t know… On the other hand, he’s also an angel and he knows all sorts of stuff, so…

Sam isn’t very proud of what he does next, but it seems like a logical solution at the moment. He flees to the bathroom with a lame “Sorry, guys” and slams and locks the door behind him. Dean wants to be the big brother? Well he can be that now, deal with Cas by himself. This is all Dean’s fault anyway.

“Dammit, Sam!” Comes through the door and Sam turns on the loud ventilation fan so he can pretend he can’t hear anything.

His throat is parched and his hands are shaking, so he takes a sip of the tap water and then sinks to the floor, resting his forehead on his knees.

They’re so screwed.

After a while, Dean calls out, “Sam, would you come out already?” And wow, what a choice of words.

Sam opens the door and steps into the room cautiously, not sure what to expect.

Castiel is still there, staring at Sam with that unreadable expression.

“He knows,” Dean tells Sam, serious but not devastated so maybe they aren’t going to be smitten by God’s wrath for their sins just yet.

“I am not angry with you,” Castiel says surprisingly softly, his eyes darting to Dean, who nods for him to continue. “Neither am I disgusted or appalled.”

On the huge list of things that don’t make sense in Sam’s life, this one is pretty high at the top. “What? I mean, why? What?”

Dean gives a laugh that sounds almost relaxed and definitely amused. “Apparently he thinks what we have is _true love_ ,” he emphasizes the words mockingly.

“Again with the what?”

“Your love is pure and untainted,” Castiel intones solemnly, reminding Sam of a priest in the middle of a service. “It was love like the one you and Dean have that convinced me it was worth it to rebel against Heaven’s orders. The capacity to feel love like this is why my Father preferred you to all his other Creation.”

This renders them both speechless, but Cas doesn’t seem to mind as he continues. “Your love… It bears all things, believes in all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

Sam recognizes the words from Paul’s first epistle to the Corinthians, and suddenly he understands, adding the words that follow next: “Love never ends.”

“Yes,” the angel nods, and a chill runs through Sam at the confidence in that single short word. It sounds like a benediction, like a prayer, like something that stays and never goes away.

Then, with a flap of his wings, the angel is gone, leaving Sam and Dean alone, dumbstruck.

Again, Dean is the first one to collect himself. “Wow. That was intense.”

Sam lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“So, since an angel of the Lord kinda gave us his blessing, do you feel better about us now?”

“He’s a _renegade_ angel of the Lord,” Sam reminds him. “So, his blessing? Not exactly official.”

“Well, he’s the only one of those fluffy jerks whose opinion I care about,” Dean answers simply. “So what do you say, Sammy? How about we prove him right?”

 

 

**May, 2010**

The tragically ironic thing is that them becoming lovers didn’t really change a thing. They still bickered and argued and fought and in the end, Sam jumped into the cage with Lucifer, leaving Dean behind.

Dean doesn’t know what to think of that, how come them sleeping together could change so little, or maybe even nothing at all. Sometimes he tries to look at it positively, telling himself that it only means their relationship was so solid, so well-established, that them consummating it sexually was actually just another step in the way, that it wasn’t actually taking it to a whole new level, it was just doing what was meant to be done all this time.

But mostly, Dean can’t look at it as anything else as a failure, as a proof that Cas was wrong, that their love wasn’t strong enough. Yeah, maybe strong enough to save the world, but what is a world without Sam anyway?

It’s like Dean’s biggest wish – Sam returning his feelings – was granted to him just so the universe could strike him down from a higher pedestal than it could before.

And now, Sam is gone, and he’s not coming back.

It would be so easy for Dean to find some ghost or a vampire, piss him off and then let him do his thing. It would be even easier to just grab his gun and point it at his own head. Take a knife and slit his wrists. Grab a bottle of painkillers and swallow them all.

If you want to die, there are countless possibilities at every corner. And Dean wants to die. God, he wants to die so bad.

He made a promise to Sam, though, and he can’t just disobey his brother’s dying wish, so he has to live. Even though he knows it’s only going to kill him inside, slowly and more painfully than if he just offed himself right now.

He can’t sleep, although he’s absolutely exhausted and still on edge. He left Bobby’s this morning and drove all day, but there are still a couple of hours left from wherever he is now and Cicero, Indiana, and since Dean made a promise to Sam that he’d get to Lisa’s safely, he needs some rest.

So he lies on the single bed of the motel room, stiff and unmoving, and stares at the ceiling for what must be hours, without managing to get a minute of sleep.

Finally, he resigns and sits up, looking around, his eyes well-adjusted to the dark already.

He can’t do it.

It doesn’t make a lick of sense, nothing here should remind him of Sam, this is just another anonymous motel room, for fuck’s sake, it’s not like this is a place that actually has memories of both of them together, like, say, the Imapala. But for some reason, Baby with those heartbreaking memories written over each and every single inch of her still offers Dean much more comfort than this place.

The room is too empty and too quiet. The bed is too cold and there is too much space and Sam is gone, gone, gone forever and Dean can’t stay here, in this room, he can’t stand the deafening loudness of its silence.

So even though he just spent hours driving and he’s tired like Hell, he just checks out again and gets back into the car, and then he’s on the road again, hoping, praying that Lisa will calm his mind and bring him some peace.

He’ll be good to her, he promises himself. He’ll make her smile and he’ll take care of both her and Ben and he’ll do his damn best to grab this second chance he’s been given at having a family. And he’ll love them; Hell, he already does.

But not like he loves Sam. Never like Sam. Sam, who is gone.

 

 

**October 2010**

Dean isn’t blind, he can tell something’s wrong with Sam. He’s more distant, colder, reserved. And, also, let’s not forget about the whole “I’ve been here the whole year but decided not to tell you” thing. That hurts. A fucking lot.

Nevertheless, it’s still Sam. Dean checked, just to be sure. Silver, holy water, all of the usual stuff, and Sam just let him do it with a sniffy smirk. That smirk reminds Dean of the way Sam had looked at him when Lucifer was wearing him to the prom. Not that the expression exactly looks the same, but there’s some of Lucifer’s superiority in it. But since Sam doesn’t give any reaction to either holy water or a muttered “Christo”, Dean accepts that this is really him.

And it’s not so weird, really, not unexpected after all that Sam’s been through. Even though he apparently only spent a short time in the Cage, there’s no way of telling how long it was for him down there, and since he was locked there with the Devil himself, Dean is sure even one second would be one second too much.

The way Sam acts might be just a coping mechanism after Hell, Dean reasons.

When Dean got pulled out from the Pit, he tried the good old Winchester classic – pretend it never happened and ignore it until it goes away. And that didn’t work out so well. So maybe Sam’s trying a different tactic, kind of shutting down his emotions or whatever, until he can process them and deal with them.

Dean isn’t going to push him or pressure him into anything. He’ll be patient and he’ll give Sam all the time and space he needs.

Only not in the physical sense, apparently, Dean corrects himself as the door to their motel room is kicked open by Sam and Dean is roughly pushed inside, stumbling. “Careful, Sammy!”

“It’s _Sam_ ,” comes the reply as Sam advances on him slowly, making Dean feel like a prey hunted by a dangerous predator. Only this prey wants to be caught.

They haven’t seen each other for over a year and yeah, Sam might act a little off, but he’s still Sam, and he looks fucking gorgeous, so the moment they are alone, they’re in each other’s space, kissing and touching and tasting every inch of skin they can find.

Dean sends a quick mental apology to Lisa, but then Sam is on him again, tugging angrily at Dean’s jacket like the piece of clothing personally offends him, so Dean hastens to help him get it off so it doesn’t end up torn.

Standing on tiptoes, Dean tries to kiss Sam, but he’s pushed away, forced to take several steps back until his back hits the wall. Again, Sam approaches him slowly, with intent, obviously aroused and wanting this as much as Dean does, but still a little bit too much composed, in control, for Dean’s liking.

“Take off that shirt,” Sam orders – because you can’t call that a suggestion – and his own jacket and shirt end up on the floor. Dean has barely enough time to get rid of the flannel before Sam is on him again, all teeth and growls and bruising hands, pulling Dean’s t-shirt over his head and when it doesn’t go as quickly as Sam wants it to, he practically rips it off.

“Wow, someone’s impatient,” Dean observes and tries to kiss Sam again, but like before, he’s pushed away. “What the Hell?”

“Just shut up.” With no obvious effort at all, Sam lifts Dean up with those monstrously strong hands and Dean immediately wraps his legs around Sam, grinding into him as Sam slams him into the wall, and whoa, he must’ve gotten even stronger than he was before…

The moment Dean’s position is secured, back against the wall and legs around Sam’s waist, Sam lets go of Dan’s ass and catches his wrists in his hands, pinning them on the wall on either side of Dean’s head. The grip too tight, grinding the bones so hard it hurts, and it shouldn’t turn Dean on, but it does, just like Sam’s teeth in the skin of his neck and his huge cock pressing against the seam of Dean’s ass.

“Sam,” Dean manages to croak out, but the rest of the sentence is replaced by a throaty moan when Sam bends down to first suck at Dean’s nipple until it’s hard and sensitive, then by a loud wail when Sam bites at the nub with sharp teeth. Bites _hard_.

“I said shut up.” Sam repeats the same treatment with the other nipple and damn, it _hurts_ , but it hurts _so good_ and Dean arches into Sam’s mouth, his head thumping against the wall.

This is crazy. Dean doesn’t mind it rough occasionally, but he’s not into pain or into being ordered around like that, so why is this turning him on so much? He’s on the brink already, his whole body thrumming with the impending release, and he hasn’t even been touched where he wants it the most.

Dean tries to wriggle himself out of his brother’s grip so he could at least touch Sam, but it’s like trying to break out of iron cuffs. “Sam, let’s get these clothes off and do this properly, okay?”

“Why?” Sam’s sucking bruises all across his chest, leaving patches of dark, wet skin behind.

To Hell with dignity. “Because if we don’t stop now, I’m gonna come in my pants.”

“I like that,” Sam gives him an evil grin and rolls his hips teasingly. “By all means, go on. There’ll be time for more later.” He finally kisses Dean, no fooling around, just straight to action, his tongue forcing its way into Dean’s slack mouth, silencing the cries Dean makes as his orgasm crashes over him.

*

Almost as soon as Dean feels Sam spill inside him, Sam pulls out and gets off the bed. Without a word or even a backward glance, he walks into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Sam hasn’t actually said much the whole time, except for short, barked out orders like “Silence” or “Open up” or “Get on the bed”. All of these were good orders leading to some very hot, very athletic and kinda kinky sex, so Dean’s not complaining, not at all.

But… this new Sam didn’t even ask Dean if he was okay afterwards, and that question would be pretty justifiable. Dean’s sure he’s going to be sore in some places for _days_.

Something’s wrong, this isn’t Sam as he should be. What really scares Dean though is how little he cares, grateful for what he has now.

Any Sam is better than no Sam, right?

 

 

**February 2011**

“Dean, move away, my arm is going numb.”

Dean complies, but he doesn’t want to let Sam get off the hook so easy, so he pokes him in the ribs instead, eliciting a grunt.

“You’re supposed to be nicer with your soul back.” He sits up and scrabbles around the floor until he finds his pants and fishes out a switchblade. “Is it really you?”

Shaking his head, Sam swats the hand holding the knife away and Dean lets it drop back to the floor, its thud muffled as it lands on his clothes which were hastily removed some time before. But he pokes Sam again, just for good measure, and cackles when Sam tries to fight him away but can’t.

It ends up with a brief scuffle and then they both dissolve into loud, free laughter, lying on their sides facing each other.

Sam’s got a smile on his lips, the one Dean hasn’t seen on his soulless version at all. This smile is goofy and relaxed and warm, caring. “I can’t actually believe Lisa invited you into her house, let alone near Ben. You must’ve been a menace for the whole neighborhood.”

“It wasn’t so bad, I tried to be good,” Dean replies, proud of the way his voice doesn’t betray any sadness. He still misses Lisa and Ben, they’ve both really grown on him, became a part of who he is, and he regrets having to let them go although he knows it was the right thing to do, the safe thing. “Made pancakes for breakfast. Went to barbecues, even gave kids candy when they came trick or treating.”

“Wow.” Sam presses his lips together in recognition. “Looks like you lived a real respectable life.”

“Wasn’t for me, though.” He doesn’t say anything else, but Sam’s smile tells Dean he heard the unspoken words that followed.

 

 

**September 2011**

“Hey, Sam! Why the long face?” Lucifer is sitting on the table, cross-legged, and he’s grinning. “Come on, give me a smile!”

Sam closes his eyes and covers his ears with his hands and stays like that until he counts to twenty. When he looks around again, Lucifer is still there, only now he’s sitting on Sam’s bed.

“Come on, Sammy!” With a truly devilish grin, Lucifer starts dancing what must be Charleston on Sam’s bed. “Isn’t this nice?”

Sam doesn’t answer because Dean is in the same room. He probably wouldn’t register him speaking though, because he’s passed out on his bed, snoring softly, one arm hanging off the bed, fingers still wrapped around a bottle of some cheap alcohol Sam doesn’t even want to know.

“He’s a real beauty, isn’t he?” Lucifer appears on Dean’s bed now and starts poking the sleeping man with long fingers, then sneaks out his forked tongue to lick at Dean’s neck. “He tastes like frustration, it’s delicious.” The tongue sneaks into Dean’s slightly open mouth.

Sam’s hands clench into fists of rage even though he knows this isn’t real. “Stop touching him.”

“Or what? You’ll give me those puppy eyes?” The devil laughs. “Sorry, kid. That doesn’t really work on me.”

This is exhausting, maddening. Sam isn’t sure how much more of this he can take. “Just shut up,” he whispers, and for a few seconds, Lucifer does, because he likes to give Sam hope so he can crush it under his heel in the next moment.

Then he’s talking again, recounting a funny story from when God was still around and everything was good and right in Heaven. Sam already heard the story a thousand times before and he doubts it’s real anyway, but he has no way of silencing Lucifer, so he lets him prattle on.

His eyes land on the hilt of a knife that sticks out from underneath Dean’s pillow. It would be so easy to grab it and drive it through his own heart, end this torment once and for all.

“Thinking of killing yourself again, are you?” Lucifer winks at Sam knowingly. “Giving up already? Gotta say I’m disappointed, I expected more from you.”

Ignoring the taunting, Sam lets his eyes roam over his brother’s sleeping form. There are dark circles around Dean’s eyes, probably matching the ones Sam is wearing, and he looks tired even in his sleep. He’s lost weight, too. He doesn’t look good, hasn’t looked good for a long time.

Finally fixing his stare on Dean’s hand wrapped around the neck of that bottle, Sam shakes his head resolutely. “Not giving up.”

 

 

**February 2012**

“Sammy, you need to eat.”

“Not hungry.” If Dean wasn’t so worried about his brother, he’d laugh at the way he is pouting at him, looking like he’s five years old at best. “Leave me alone.”

“Not gonna happen.” Dean places a large plate on the table in front of Sam and can’t help feeling smug when he sees the surprise in Sam’s eyes as Sam registers what exactly it is that Dean’s set on making him eat.

“You got me fruit? _Voluntarily_?”

“Knew you’d like it,” Dean shrugs nonchalantly, but inside he’s doing a little victory dance.

Without further prompting, Sam digs in, picking off the grapes first – Dean makes a mental note to bring more of these next time – before eating the rest of the fruits. He even licks his fingers afterwards, but stops when he notices Dean staring at him.

They haven’t slept together for months. Every time Dean tries to touch Sam in an even remotely sexual way, Sam just pulls away. He always finds an excuse – he’s tired, he has some work to do, he has a headache. And these are all good, valid excuses which Dean accepts, but he knows there’s something more behind them, something he can’t help with. How can you fight the devil inside your brother’s head?

He lets Sam take the first shower and cleans the dishes in the small kitchenette.

The shower’s still running and he pulls out a bottle of JD from his duffel to take several long gulps, then decides a couple more can’t hurt. But when he hears the shower being turned off, he quickly hides the bottle away.

Sam doesn’t like it when Dean drinks. He never says anything out loud, but it’s clear from the looks he gives Dean when he sees him with a bottle between his lips.

And of course, he’s got a point. Dean is ruining himself with the drinking. But on the other hand, most of the time he feels like the alcohol is the only thing keeping him functioning, even if just barely.

He doesn’t remember the last time he didn’t feel worn out to the bone. Or the last time he slept well. Or – his favorite – the last time he genuinely laughed. A memory comes to his mind, of him and Cas being thrown out of a brothel. But that was fucking long ago and Cas is gone.

He’s never felt more alone in his whole life. Lisa and Ben don’t remember him. Cas is dead. Bobby is dead. Sam is… Sam is wasting away before Dean’s eyes and he can’t do a thing to help him. There’s no one to turn to, no one to talk to – not that Dean ever was much for talking, but before, he always knew there were people who’d listen if he needed it – and there’s no one to lean on.

The whole world is falling apart around Dean and he’s the one supposed to hold it all together? He’s not sure he can.

He’s sure as Hell not just going to quit trying, though.

*

They go to sleep late because they’re both strung up, tired from battling their inner demons all the time but not tired enough to fall asleep easily.

The one small mercy that Dean is thankful for is that Sam still lets Dean sleep with him in one bed, even if it leads to some awkward moments in the mornings. But it also allows him to curl around Sam protectively, gently holding him in his arms, offering warmth and support, grounding him in this reality as much as he can.

“G’night, Sam.” He kisses the nape of Sam’s neck softly. Sam doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t move into the kiss either.

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam’s words almost barely audible, whispered under his breath.

He frowns. “For what?”

The silence stretches for so long that Dean thinks Sam forgot about the question, but finally Sam draws in a shaky breath before replying, “Just… for you.”

That’s weird. “Okay?”

“You help me a lot, Dean.” Sam’s back is still turned to Dean and Dean regrets not being able to see his face. “I know I’m a mess–“

“You’re not–“

“– but I’d be far worse off if it wasn’t for you,” Sam finishes in a stronger voice. “Sometimes I feel like you’re the only thing anchoring me in the land of the sane.”

“And isn’t that ironic,” Dean attempts to lighten the mood and they both chuckle before falling silent.

He doesn’t want to be Sam’s anchor, he doesn’t want to be his safety, he doesn’t want to be the shoulder to lean on. He’s not strong enough for that and sooner or later he’s going to let Sam down.

 

 

**April 2012**

Dean glances at his watch for what must be the tenth time. “The ward round should be over by now, why doesn’t she turn on the damn phone?”

“No, actually it’s probably not over yet, it’s Monday,” Sam corrects his brother, who just stares at him blankly, so Sam decides to take pity on him and explains, “Monday rounds usually take longer, that’s when they take in new patients and stuff.”

“Huh.” Dean starts pacing restlessly. Five longs steps from the window to the bathroom door, turnabout, five steps to the window, turnabout, repeat.

“I’m gonna go crazy if you don’t stop doing that,” Sam comments when ten minutes pass and Dean still doesn’t calm down.

“Again?” Dean makes two more steps but suddenly comes to a halt as if he thinks Sam might be serious. He sits on the edge of the king-size bed, but he only lasts about twenty seconds before his knee starts bouncing nervously. “God, I need a drink.”

“You need _Cas_ ,” Sam interjects, sitting next to his brother, close enough that their shoulders are touching. He places one hand on Dean’s bouncing knee, forcing it down until it stills. “Dean, he’s fine.”

“Yeah, the same kind of fine that nearly killed you. Except he’s an angel, so it might take him years before Lucifer takes him out for good.”

Just that name makes Sam shudder and look around the room to check that Lucifer is truly gone. Dean somehow senses the tension in him and throws one arm around Sam’s shoulders, pulling him closer until Sam rests his head on Dean’s. Dean smells like sweat and leather and alcohol, all mixed together with frustration and worry, so Sam wraps his arm around Dean’s waist in return.

The ringing of Dean’s cellphone makes them both jump.

“Yeah?” Dean answers the phone, sounding anxious as he stands up and starts pacing again. He covers the phone with one hand to whisper at Sam, “It’s her.”

Sam stays sitting on the bed and watches his brother’s face closely as Dean listens to Meg, hoping that he might read something there, but Dean’s closed off, unreadable, face like made of stone. Which is actually an indication in itself, meaning that things are going south and Dean thinks he has to be the mindless, fearless soldier again.

Meg says something that makes Dean smile, but the smile looks mournful.

“Thanks, Meg,” Dean says, tone flat. Then, “Wait! Tell him… tell him I said hi, okay?” He ends the call and shoves the phone into his pocket, stubbornly avoiding meeting Sam’s eyes.

But Castiel is Sam’s friend too, and Sam wants to know. “So? How is he?”

“About what you’d expect,” Dean mutters gloomily. “She said the doctors are pretty skeptical.”

The gloomy mood is contagious. Sam hangs his head. “It’s all my fault.”

“What? That Lucifer is a sick old bastard that likes to mess with people’s heads?” Dean’s boots appear in Sam’s field of vision and then the rest of Dean appears, too, as he squats down in front of Sam, forcing him to meet his eyes. He looks tired. “None of this is your fault. All you did was save the world.” A sigh. “And it’s not Cas’s fault either, I guess. He fucked up pretty bad, but he did it with the best intentions.”

Sam snorts. “Like a true Winchester.”

“Yeah, thanks for the vote of confidence.” Dean stands up and plumps down onto the bed next to Sam, lies on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Sam joins him. There’s a crack just above the bed, and a weird smudge close to the light. “We could go visit him.”

“No. We don’t know how many Levis or demons are tracking us, we could lead them straight to Cas.” Dean shakes his head resolutely. “I want him as safe as possible. Which means as far from us as possible.”

“Okay.”

“I miss him, though.”

“I know.”

Sam finds Dean’s hand and squeezes it. Dean squeezes back.

 

 

**May 2012**

This is the second time Dean left Sam alone.

The first time, when Lilith’s hellhound tore him up and dragged him to Hell, it was actually easier for Sam than it is now. Yes, the knowledge of where Dean was and what was happening to him was crushing, devastating, but at least it was a certainty, no space for doubt. Dean was gone and there was no way of getting him back. Lilith was responsible and she had to pay. Sam had a body to bury and a reason to live, even if that reason was revenge.

But now? There’s no way of telling what happened to Dean, whether he’s dead or just somewhere else, whether there’s a chance of him coming back.

He could be somewhere out there, hurt, needing Sam’s help. Or he could be gone for good.

And Sam can’t do this anymore. The uncertainty, the constant fear, all of it. It has to stop.

He goes into the bathroom and leans his hands against the sink as he looks into the eyes of his reflection in the mirror. “My brother is dead,” he says out loud, articulating carefully. “Dean is dead.” And again, over and over. “Dean is dead.”

Once he stops crying, he actually feels… maybe not better, but definitely lighter. More free.

He is alone, has nowhere to go, no one to talk to. He’s not bound to anyone or anything, like a crumbled piece of paper carried across an empty street by the wind.

There was this literature class Sam took at Stanford, where they talked about Camus and _The Myth of Sisyphus_. The mythical king, cursed by the gods to the terrible fate of repeatedly having to roll a heavy boulder up a hill only to watch it roll back down. Only Camus said something different: in accepting his role, his fate, Sisyphus breaks free, and actually experiences true happiness.

It never truly made sense to Sam, although he understood the philosophical grounds of Camus’s point of view. He didn’t comprehend it then; how could he?

He thinks he comprehends now.

 

 

**November 2012**

Once Dean returns Sam is immediately pulled back into the bloody world of hunting. It’s almost like Dean is a magnet for trouble – for the whole year, Sam hasn’t encountered a single demon, a single supernatural being, but with Dean back, the monsters are back, too.

And Dean is… weird. Not the kind of weird he was after he returned from Hell, when every unexpected sound made him cringe or twitch in a way that betrayed his desire to listen to his instincts and just hide or flee.

This time, it seems like every unexpected sound awakens a different set of instincts in Dean – the instincts to attack, to fight, to kill.

After Hell, Dean was practically pushing himself just to function. After Purgatory, most of the time Dean looks like he’s actually holding himself back.

Sam supposes it’s because of how life was in Purgatory, the whole kill or be killed thing, but he still can’t ignore that unsettling feeling in his stomach sometimes when he looks at Dean and sees that cold, calculating look in his eyes, like he’s weighting the pros and cons of letting someone die or live, like it’s all just numbers to him, not people.

Dean came back from Purgatory hardened, ruthless, unscrupulous even. The way he didn’t hesitate when he had the chance to kill Crowley in Linda Tran’s body… Yes, Sam would have probably tried to kill him too, if he was in Dean’s position, but he’d at least feel bad about it later. Dean said killing Linda would add to his nightmares, but he didn’t seem very guilty or remorseful to Sam.

Also, as if all this wasn’t concerning enough, apparently Dean has a friend who is a vampire. From Purgatory. Sam still isn’t sure how to handle that particular news.

“Fuck!” Dean’s pain-laced voice comes from the bathroom, pulling Sam out of his thoughts.

Sam actually smiles as he listens to his brother’s grunts and curses that accompany Dean examining the scratch on his back that he got on their last hunt.

Normally, Dean being injured wouldn’t be a reason for a smile, but this time, Sam is grateful for it because it proved that under that tough, hardened façade, Dean is still the same man he always was. The kitsune’s claws scratched him when he was covering two small, scared children with his own body, leaning over them and whispering “Don’t worry, it’s gonna be okay.”

Sam stabbed the kitsune then and expected Dean to get up and walk away, all “our job is done here, the monster’s dead”, because that’s how Dean operated lately. The monster was dead, the kids were safe and their parents on the way so from the point of view of a heartless, cold fighting machine, there was no reason to stay.

But Dean didn’t walk away. Instead, he stayed, one kid in each arm, his voice gentle and soothing as he talked them through the shock, hushed words and even softly sung melodies that Sam recognizes from when he was a kid himself.

In that moment Sam realized that Dean didn’t become a heartless monster-killing machine, he was just having trouble adjusting to a world so vastly different from the cruel, endless free-for-all of Purgatory. And Sam can relate to that, and he thinks he can help. Dean was his moral compass when Sam didn’t have a soul, so Sam will serve as Dean’s compass until Dean remembers how to be fully human again.

“Sam? A little help here?”

He looks up to see Dean standing in the doorway to the bathroom, swaying a little. He’s pale and sweating, and he generally doesn’t look so well.

“Yeah, sorry. Coming.” Sam grabs the first aid kit and points to a chair. Dean sits down obediently, turning his back to Sam.

“That’s a pretty nasty wound,” Sam winces as he bends down to examine it. Some of the gashes seem pretty deep in places. “When you said the kitsune scratched you, I didn’t expect a mess like this. You should’ve said something earlier.”

“’S okay,” Dean shrugs and then curses when the movements pulls at his torn flesh. “We had to take care of the kids and their parents first, they were scared shitless.”

Sam can’t help another smile that pulls at his lips. This is how Dean should be. “I know. But still, you could’ve said something earlier, we could’ve looked at the wound at some gas station or something.”

“Had worse.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam starts cleaning the wound carefully. “Yeah, that’s a brilliant argument. ‘No, doctor, you don’t need to fix my broken leg, I’d broken them both as a child, so I've had worse.’ You’re a real genius, Dean.”

“Let’s try again, without the irony.”

“You’re an idiot, Dean.”

“Not what I meant. But I appreciate the honesty.”

Sam finishes patching the wound up but doesn’t move away. It is nice to be this close to Dean, he missed touching him, feeling him.

In the sharp artificial light of the lamp straight above them, something on Dean’s neck catches Sam’s attention. Pale, raised tissue of a scar that strongly resembles a bite mark. He hasn’t noticed it before. He runs his fingers over the scar and feels Dean flinch under the touch. “Is this a vampire bite?”

Dean tenses visibly, muscles jumping under bare skin. “Yeah.”

“Is it from Benny?”

Slowly, careful about the freshly stitched wound on his back, Dean turns on his chair so he can look straight into Sam’s eyes. “Yeah.” He holds Sam’s gaze steadily.

More questions come to Sam’s mind, but he doesn’t ask, afraid that Dean might actually answer.

He gets up instead and goes to dispose of the used gauze and bandages. When he comes back from the bathroom after thoroughly washing his hands, Dean is still sitting on the chair, unmoving, like a statue.

“You okay?”

Dean doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t acknowledge Sam’s presence in any way but the slight nod of his head.

“You need something for the pain?”

“Nah, it’s good.”

“You know that it’s probably easier trying to have a conversation with a stone than with you?”

That at least gets a chuckle out of Dean. “Yeah, I’ve been told so before.” He still has smile in his eyes when he looks at Sam. “Okay, what do you wanna talk about, Letterman?”

“Well, maybe you?” Sam suggests, not sure whether Dean is actually trying to be forthcoming or he’s just taking the piss out of him. “I mean, how are you holding up? Adjusting to not being in a concentrated warzone all the time.”

“Haven’t gone nuts and killed any civilians yet, have I?” Dean stands up, holding himself a bit stiffly, and goes to brush his teeth. Sam follows his example. “So I guess I’m going pretty okay.”

Sam hums affirmatively, mouth full of toothpaste.

Some things never change, Dean still talks with a toothbrush in his mouth. “Have to admit, it’s kinda difficult, getting used to the fact that when you feel someone standing behind your back, you’re not supposed to chop their head off.” He frowns. “Huh. It would be so much easier if our job didn’t involve chopping heads occasionally.”

“Mhmm.”

Dean does his favorite “gargling while grinning at Sam” shtick, which Sam still doesn’t find funny. But things get funnier when Dean’s injured back doesn’t allow him to bend over the sink as far as he counted on and he spits toothpaste all over himself. “Son of a bitch!”

Sam laughs so hard he nearly chokes on the toothpaste in his own mouth.

“That’ll teach you, you brat,” Dean states, obviously pleased. “No poking fun at the psycho war vet.”

Dean walks over to the pleasantly big king-sized bed and carefully lowers himself onto it, bandaged back up. Sam sighs out in relief, glad that his brother finally stopped sleeping on the ground. The claim that “the mattress is too soft” was kinda creepy.

“Quit staring at my ass and come here,” Dean grumbles, voice sleep-heavy.

Turning the light off, Sam slips under the covers next to him.

 

 

**January 2013**

Sam is sitting at the computer, doing research.

Dean is bored. And judging by the not so subtle comments he’s been dropping for the past ten minutes or so, he’s also horny.

Sam’s not too happy about that. Not that horny Dean isn’t a good thing, but right now Sam has some work to do and he’d really like to finish it before he goes to bed. Dean’s lame attempts at seduction are… well, lame, but still tempting, and occupying brain cells that should be doing something else.

“Dude, I wanna fuck.” Dean’s obviously ran out of subtle hints, taking a more direct approach.

Sam looks in the direction of Dean’s voice. Dean is leaning against the wall, one foot propped up against it, hips jutting out in blatant invitation. He’s only wearing his jeans and the way he puts himself on display, he looks straight out of a porn flick.

Sam shakes his head in disbelief, ignoring his cock which acts very interested. The traitor. “I’m working, Dean.”

“Yeah, and next time you’re gonna tell me you have a headache, right? You’re such a girl.”

Sam lets the comment pass, but he can’t hide his amused smile. Sometimes his brother acts like he’s twelve years old.

“Come on,” Dean whines behind him. “Just a quick one.”

“No.”

“How about I blow you?”

Very tempting. Dean’s good at giving head, he’s always fully into it, not holding back, giving all he has to offer, or, even better, just letting Sam take it. He sucks cock like his life depends on it, and he keeps making those desperate little noises like he can’t get enough. “No.” It sounds less determined this time, though, and it takes a lot of willpower for Sam to keep his eyes on the computer screen. “I found this interesting article on-“

“Ah, for God’s sake, I don’t give a damn! Come to bed!”

Sam still doesn’t turn around, but he can tell from Dean’s voice that Dean is pouting. He simply mustn’t look at him now or he’s lost. “Can’t you just entertain yourself?”

“Seems like I’m gonna have to do just that,” Dean grumbles, and doesn’t say anything else after that.

But then Sam hears soft footsteps and then there’s the rustle of clothes being taken off. Oh. So Dean’s really going to ‘entertain himself’.

Sam keeps his eyes glued to the screen, but he can’t really make out the words, unable to concentrate on anything except the sounds that come from behind his back. A squeak of the mattress, a bit of moving around, then the pop of a bottle of lube being opened. Nothing. Then, a low moan.

 _I won’t let him win that easily_ , Sam promises himself determinedly. He notices the laptop’s gone into screensaver mode, but he’s not sure when did that happen or how long it’s been like this. Blinking a couple times to get some of his concentration back, he runs his fingers across the touchpad and the screensaver disappears.

He focuses on the article again. It’s in French, written by some professor from Paris, and it deals with medieval myths about revenants. Of course, Sam knows that some of those myths aren’t myths at all. But others are, and others yet are new to him so Sam writes them down, hoping he’ll be able to confirm or disconfirm them at some point.

Another breathy moan comes from the bed, followed by a whispered curse. So much for concentration.

Sam rubs his hands across his face. “Dean, do you really have to do that?”

“Yeah,” comes the reply, a little breathless. “And so should you.”

Sam realizes he’s reading the same paragraph for the third time. “Really?”

“It’s…” another moan, and it goes straight to Sam’s cock, “it’s good for you.” The mattress squeaks again. “Gets you all nice and relaxed. It'll do wonders for your research skills.”

“Dean, I’m a guy. I fall asleep after sex,” Sam explains patiently, not quite sure why he’s even attempting to have a logical conversation with his brother. These never end well.

“So what? Your brain needs to rest for a bit.” Dean is using logic as a weapon, too, which is kind of new. “Come on, I know you. You’re gonna say yes anyway.”

Sam lets out a long sigh, hanging his head in defeat.

He can hear Dean get up from the bed and cross the distance between them in a few light, barely audible steps. He’s using more stealth since he got out of Purgatory, and it makes Sam think what exactly–

Dean’s hands are on his shoulders, then slipping down his chest as Dean leans over him, all warm, naked skin.

Sam swallows thickly when Dean’s fingers boldly brush his jeans-clad erection. “Fuck.”

“Finally you’re getting it,” Dean whispers into his ear, making him shiver.

And just like that, Sam can’t take it anymore. He springs to his feet and turns to face Dean, who is watching him with a mixture of amusement and want and Sam decides to erase the amusement so only want is left. He grabs Dean, one hand splayed at the small of his back and the other curled around his neck, and pulls him closer so they’re touching knee to chest, Dean’s bare skin against Sam’s clothes.

“Yeah, that’s better, little brother,” Dean purrs and nips at the skin of Sam’s neck while his hands start unbuttoning Sam’s shirt. Sam helps, and soon his clothes are crumpled under their feet and Dean’s fingers are running across Sam’s skin, rising gooseflesh as they go.

“Not so little,” Sam supports his words by grabbing Dean’s arm and pushing him towards the bed. But before he can do more, Dean twists out of Sam’s grip with surprising speed and ease, dancing out of Sam’s reach.

“Careful, Sammy.” The tone is threatening, but Dean is grinning even as he strikes with a move Sam isn’t familiar with and before Sam even realizes what is happening, he finds himself lying on the bed, pressed into the mattress by his brother who’s straddling his lap and holding his both wrists in his hands.

Sam tries to buck Dean off, relying on his greater strength, but again, Dean counters the attempt effectively without even breaking a sweat. “Dude, you gotta teach me those moves.”

“And lose the advantage? No way.”

“You’re such a jerk,” Sam grumbles and again tries to throw Dean off, but all he succeeds in is grinding his erection against Dean’s ass, which elicits a half-swallowed moan from his brother, so maybe it’s not such a failure. Sam repeats the motion and this time Dean’s moan is louder, drawn-out and Dean’s hard cock twitches against his flat belly. “You’re gonna have to let me go if you wanna get fucked.”

Another of those irritatingly hot, self-confident smirks. “Actually, I’m not.” The statement is accompanied by Dean squeezing Sam’s wrists harder, pressing them into the bed. “Keep them there.”

Curious where this is heading, Sam doesn’t protest.

Dean lifts himself up slightly and grabs hold of Sam’s erection, fumbles a bit before he finds what he’s looking for and starts sinking down onto Sam's cock. He’s slick and loosened up enough that it doesn’t take long before Sam’s fully inside him. They both groan.

Without thinking, Sam places his hands on Dean’s hips but Dean catches them again and pushes them back down. “Nuh-uh.”

“What, I don’t get to touch?”

“You get to watch,” Dean informs him happily and slowly rises up on his knees until only the tip of Sam’s cock is inside him, then snaps back down sharply. “I’m a real sight to behold.”

Since Sam can’t really argue with that, he shuts up and decides that he might as well enjoy the show.

Dean sets up a tortuously slow pace that nevertheless has its advantages – it gives Sam the opportunity to really pay attention to every detail of the feast for the eyes that is his brother. His body is taut as a bowstring, back arched, head thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted on a moan, strong thigh muscles working as he moves up and down.

Despite his questionable diet, Dean’s always been in pretty good shape, all muscles and strength. And now, after Purgatory, he’s sleeker, wiry, like everything redundant had been removed until all that was left was pure power and concentrated skill. It’s deadly, but breathtaking. And hot as Hell.

“Come on, let me touch,” Sam pleads and when Dean doesn’t respond, he puts his hands on Dean’s hips again and starts thrusting up, forcing Dean down every time his hips move up. Dean’s groans and grunts get louder as he braces himself against Sam’s chest with one hand and wraps the other around his erection.

“Fuck, Sam! You’re like a jackhammer!” Dean’s come spurts all over his fingers and his ass clenches around Sam so deliciously that Sam follows him right over the edge.

Breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly, skin slick with sweat and flushed, Dean looks like a dream come true, especially when Sam notices the way he’s watching him. He will never get tired of seeing the love and awe in his brother’s eyes, knowing that this depth of emotion is reserved for Sam only.

What Sam had with Amelia, it was sweet and peaceful, and he thinks he could’ve been happy with her, but it wouldn’t be this. It wouldn’t be _Dean_.

Dean who is stubborn and annoying and thickheaded and lies when he thinks it’s for the best, Dean who listens to the same five albums over and over again, Dean who talks with his mouth full of fast food and doesn’t let Sam drive.

Dean who doesn’t need half a bottle of alcohol just to fall asleep anymore, Dean who’s finally learning to be in peace with himself, comfortable in his own skin enough to let his inner geek out, Dean who always comes back to Sam no matter how far he has to walk to do so.

Maybe they’re finally going to be okay.

“Sammy,” Dean’s fingers brush away a strand of hair that was sticking to his forehead. “You falling asleep already?”

“Warned you I would.”

Dean gives him that soft, fond smile that makes Sam feel safe and loved and warm inside. “Alright, kid. Let’s sleep.” He drapes himself over Sam and pulls a blanket over the both of them.

“We’re gonna be all sticky and itchy in the morning,” Sam grumbles although he’s not really that bothered by it.

“Suck it up, bitch. I wanna sleep too.”

 

 

**May 2013**

On TV, the CSI team is investigating a case of murders connected to Dante Alighieri’s _Inferno_. “I hate procedural cop shows,” Dean grumbles morosely and changes the channel. Another cop show. He spends five more minutes surfing through the channels before he gives up and picks one at random. A couple of FBI agents are chasing a killer through a huge hotel kitchen, knocking over serving tables and cookware as they go. The music is fast-paced and loud and accompanied by the sounds of clattering pans and cooking pots, so Dean leaves it on.

He wants to give Sam some sense of privacy. He can still hear him throwing up in the motel bathroom, but like this, he can at least pretend he doesn’t.

Dean can’t help feeling guilty for dragging Sam back into the hunter business. If he didn’t, they wouldn’t have found Kevin and they wouldn’t have discovered the Trials and Sam wouldn’t be so sick right now. Sometimes Dean thinks he should’ve stayed in Purgatory, Sam would be better off without him. Especially since Sam obviously doesn’t see himself as a hunter for the rest of his life like Dean does. He had a way out and Dean took it away from him.

And now Sam might die. Again.

No use crying over spilled milk, though. The damage is already done and Dean is going to do everything in his power to fix it.

The sounds of retching in the bathroom are going on too long. Screw privacy, what if Sam needs help?

Dean barges in and finds Sam bent over the toilet, holding onto the porcelain with shaking hands. He apparently doesn’t have anything in his stomach left, but he keeps dry-heaving like his body doesn’t want him to stop. Dressed only in his sweats and a thin t-shirt, he looks so pale and thin.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean puts one calming hand on Sam’s shoulder, not gripping too tight but tight enough, a symbol of his presence, an offer of help and support and love that will always be there. Sam’s skin is feverish and sick-looking, almost white.

Dean kneels onto the tiled floor next to his brother so he can support him better, taking most of his weight. He’s so light, it’s like he’s losing weight every day, wasting away and Dean is scared that soon there will be nothing left but bones. He pushes that thought away resolutely, unwilling to submit to defeatism. “Shh, it’s okay, all okay,” he repeats as he holds Sam until finally Sam’s body calms down and the retching ceases.

Sam is shivering uncontrollably as Dean practically hauls him to his feet and helps him rinse his mouth and wash his face. “Thanks, Dean.”

Dean stifles a bitter laugh. Thanks for what? “Yeah.”

He leads Sam to the bed and eases him to sit down on the edge, taking of his boots and then pushing him gently until Sam’s lying on his back, still shivering, staring at Dean with tired, bloodshot eyes. “I’m cold.”

“Let’s get you warm, then,” Dean says with fake cheerfulness. He strips down to his boxers and slips under the blanket next to Sam, wrapping himself around him immediately, careful not to be too heavy. “Just like when we were kids, remember?”

“You used to say it was… like trying to warm up a hailstone,” Sam’s teeth are chattering.

Dean laughs curtly at the memory. “And that was when you were still shorter than me. Imagine how I feel now. Like warming up an iceberg.”

“Hopeless, right?” And Sam doesn’t mean just him being cold, Dean is sure of that.

“No.” _Fuck no_. Dean starts rubbing his hands up and down Sam’s body, going as far as he can reach without having to move too much. “See? You’re already warming up. We’ll get you all nice and warm and then you’ll get some sleep. It’s all gonna be just fine in the morning, I promise.”

Sam doesn’t respond. His teeth stop chattering though and after a while, the shivers subside, too, and finally he falls asleep in Dean’s arms.

Dean’s mind is too hyped up to let him sleep. He thinks about what they learned from Father Simon in that church in St. Louis. If it really is possible to cure a demon, then Sam is going to do the final Trial and he’s going to get better, simply because the other alternative is not an option.

They are going to close the gates of Hell and Sam will recover and he’ll live a safe, healthy, happy life. Hopefully with Dean.

Because Dean realizes that now – what he feels for Sam, how he’d do anything for him and how his world will always revolve around his brother… that will never change, never go away. Even after all the hurt and pain they’ve caused each other – and Dean still can’t get over the fact that Sam didn’t look for him when he was in Purgatory, because that hurts, a fucking lot – there’s this irresistible force pulling them back together, like opposite poles of a magnet.

Between the two of them there is hurt and pain and betrayal and wishes gone bitter and shattered dreams and there’s even some amount of mistrust, but underneath that all, there is love, love for Sam so strong and fierce that it may be destructive at times, its flames burning them both, but its fire can never be extinguished.

Sam is going to live through these Trials. Dean will make sure of that.

 

 

**June 2013**

“I am healing Sam as fast as I can,” Ezekiel tilts his head to one side in a Castiel fashion, making Dean wonder whether this is something all supposedly good angels do. “It would go much easier and faster if your brother didn’t insist on letting himself be killed or gravely injured every week.”

“And what am I supposed to do, huh?” Dean throws his hands up. “Lock him inside the bunker?”

“That would be wise, yes.”

Dean frowns. “You’re kidding, right? And what am I supposed to tell him? He’s getting suspicious even now and I’m running out of lies and excuses.”

“Then you’re going to have to become a better liar,” Ezekiel says with that kind of calm that only angels possess. “He isn’t strong enough to stay alive without me yet, so if you want him to live, you’re going to have to figure something out.”

“Wait, Zeke–“

But Sam’s body is already slumping, eyes falling closed, and when he opens them again, they aren’t Ezekiel’s, they’re Sam’s. “Dean?”

Great. More lying. “You dozed off, Sam. Maybe you should get some real shut-eye.”

“I don’t remember feeling sleepy." Even better. Sam’s not buying it.

“That’s because you were sleepy,” Dean suggests an explanation helpfully.

Sam shoots him a worried glance and shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s it, Dean. There’s something else going on with me.”

Dean’s heart stops for a second and he forces himself to breathe, to act normal. He puts on a baffled look. “Huh?”

“I’ve been having these memory lapses, blackouts lately,” Sam scratches his head nervously. “Sometimes I just appear somewhere without remembering how I got there or what I was doing.”

“Really? That’s weird,” Dean says because he knows he can’t play the “you were just imagining it” note forever.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, looking relieved that Dean is taking him seriously. “It happened when we found Cas with that Reaper, and in the bunker when we were hunting the Wicked Witch–“

“That’s because she possessed us,” Dean offers, hoping it might throw Sam off his trail.

“No, before that. In your room. And it felt different.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“And it happened again with that psycho animal guy two weeks ago and last week with the demons and then yesterday when we fought the Rougarou,” Sam counts the instances on his fingers.

“Maybe it’s just after-effects of the Trials.”

“Maybe,” Sam nods and Dean relaxes slightly, “but I don’t think so. See, I remember feeling like this before. The blackouts, the inexplicable memory loss, appearing at strange places. It’s like when I was possessed by Meg.”

Oh, fuck, He’s getting close and Dean isn’t far from panicking. “Hey, come on! A possession?” He pushes down the hem of Sam’s shirt to expose his tattoo. “See? Intact. No demon inside you.”

Sam doesn’t look convinced, so Dean pulls out his flask of holy water and splashes some of it on Sam’s face. “Nothing. No demon.”

“Maybe it’s not a demon,” Sam says slowly as he wipes his face and Dean realizes he’s truly fucked this time. “Maybe it’s an angel.”

“They can’t possess a vessel without its consent, remember?” Dean’s mind is racing as he searches for more excuses that he could use. “You didn’t say yes to any winged douchebag as far as I know.”

“That’s maybe because I don’t remember saying it,” Sam runs a hand through his hair. “What if one of them found a way to trick me somehow?”

“Like how?”

“I don’t know, maybe get into my dreams, look like somebody else and make me say yes without telling me what I was really consenting to?”

Dean forces himself to laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

Sam is watching him closely, curiously, with suspicion. “Is it?”

“Okay, why don’t we make sure,” Dean digs a pen out of his bag and uncaps it as he enters the bathroom. Sam follows him but Dean pushes him back out of the room. “Stay there and wait.”

“What are you doing?”

Dean starts drawing onto the wall that separates the bathroom from the main room because from where Sam is standing, he can’t actually see the symbols so he can’t tell Dean isn’t drawing them correctly. “I’m gonna ward this room against angels and then you’re gonna try to enter. If you can’t then we know an angel is inside you.” It’s a desperate plan, counting on the fact that Sam won’t notice something’s wrong with the sigils Dean drew, but it’s the only one Dean and Ezekiel managed to come up with, long weeks ago.

Sam actually seems satisfied with it. “Okay. That’s pretty smart.”

“It was my idea after all,” Dean grins at him as he works on the sigils. He makes them as real as he can without making them really real, changing the designs where it’s difficult to spot. “Okay, come in.”

Taking a deep breath, Sam steps over the threshold and into the bathroom. He looks at Dean in disbelief. “Huh. I really am just me.”

Dean needs to get him out of the room before Sam sees the symbols are wrong so he steps up to hug him and gives him a quick kiss. “See? I told you. Nobody sitting behind your wheel but you.” He pushes Sam back out of the room, slapping his ass playfully. “Now how about you get us something to eat while I try to clean the mess I’ve made here?”

Sam nods and grabs his wallet and the Impala’s keys. “Okay. Chinese?”

“Yeah, Chinese sounds good.”

“Not as good as that chilli you made in the bunker last Sunday, though.” Sam is actually smiling, looking happy and relieved. “I’d never thought I’d say this, but you’re actually a pretty good cook.”

Dean grins at him and winks. “I’m a man of many surprises.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Sam throws over his shoulder and then he’s gone, leaving Dean alone with his growing pile of regrets and lies.

 

 

**September 2013**

When Sam finds out about Ezekiel, it’s by an accident. They’re hunting a witch who turns out to be a fully fallen angel like Anna was and the woman uses some modified angel-banishing sigil that kills Ezekiel but leaves Sam intact. That’s how Sam learns he’s been walking around with an angel inside him for the past three months.

Somehow, Sam manages to stay calm and composed during the ride from the witch’s place back to the motel, not wanting to make a scene in public, but as soon as the door of their room is closed behind them, the rage and betrayal that’s been stewing inside him explodes.

“You son of a bitch!” He shouts and punches Dean in the gut, the sight of his brother doubling over in pain most satisfactory so he does it again. Dean collapses onto the ground, clutching onto his stomach, but he doesn’t try to defend himself or get up. He just lies there.

Sam’s not having any of that. He grabs Dean by the front of his jacket and hauls him up, punches him again, slams him against the nearest wall, face-first. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time!” There’s a sickening, crunching noise as he smashes Dean’s face into the hard wall again and when he pulls Dean away, the white paint is stained with red.

Sam wants to see it, he wants to see Dean’s pain, so he spins him around and watches blood drip from Dean’s broken nose and cracked lips. Good.

Dean sways on his legs, looking like he might fall down and Sam holds him up by his shoulders so he can kick him. “Letting an angel possess me? Against my will?” Another punch, another knee to the guts.

Later, when Sam’s head is clearer, Sam realizes Dean could’ve fought him off at any moment, especially since Sam was weakened by Ezekiel leaving his body; but Dean didn’t. He let Sam take his anger out on him without a single word of protest, without lifting a finger to protect himself.

But right now, all Sam can feel is white-hot rage fueled by the sharp sting of betrayal. “I trusted you, Dean!”

“S-sorry,” comes through Dean’s cracked, bleeding lips, shaky and weak.

Sam laughs. This is hilarious. “Sorry? You think that’s gonna fix things? Make it better?” He feels very tired suddenly, exhausted, so he lets go of Dean who slumps against the wall, barely keeping himself standing.

“How could you do that to me?” Sam asks finally, desperately needing to know, to understand. “After all we’ve been through?”

“Couldn’t let you die, Sammy,” Dean whispers without meeting Sam’s eyes.

“Right. Because it always comes back to that.” Sam shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re never gonna let me go, are you?”

“Not like this.”

“Like what?”

Dean licks the blood off his lips and swallows uneasily. “The only reason I let you do the Trials was because you said you wanted to survive them. You said you wanted to live.” He takes a rasping breath and winces. “Said you saw the light. So how could I let you go?” He’s having difficulty speaking, the words slurring in his swelling mouth.

Sam ignores the bone-deep ingrained instinct to ask Dean if he’s okay and refocuses on the matter at hand. “Fine, but tricking me into saying yes to an angel you barely knew?”

Dean takes a deep, wheezing breath and closes his eyes for a moment, whether to fight pain or to collect his thoughts, Sam doesn’t know and doesn’t care. “Cas vouched for him.”

“Yeah, and Cas is such a great judge of character, seeing as he unintentionally helped Metatron close Heaven. He’s a real genius.”

For the first time since this fight started, something different than meek, guilty surrender appears on Dean’s face. “Hey, leave Cas alone.” Actual anger flashes in his eyes. “And don’t give me the whole holier-than-thou crap, either. Do I have to remind you what happened when you trusted Ruby and let Lucifer out of his cage?”

“Do I have to remind you what happened when you sold your soul for me and then broke the first seal in Hell?” Sam throws back readily.

“Look, I admit, I fucked up!” Dean sways again and Sam steadies him with one hand. “I fucked up big time. That’s what you wanna hear, huh? You want me to get down on my knees and apologize?”

“No, I want you to give me your word you won’t do something like that again.”

“What?”

“No more lying. Ever.”

“Can’t promise that,” Dean says defiantly and sadly at the same time. “You know I’m always gonna do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

Sam can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Even if that’s not what I’d want? Even if I was ready to go?”

“Well maybe _I_ wasn’t ready for you to go!”

They’re in each other’s face now, mere inches separating them. If this was a movie, they’d break into a kiss. But it’s not a movie, it’s harsh reality and it hurts. It hurts to bad. Sam grabs Dean by both shoulders and shakes him just to see some of that hurt on somebody else’s face, too.

“Yell at me all you want,” Dean tells him, soft and conciliatory but still determined. “Hit me all you want. I’m still gonna love you.” In a small voice, like a lonely sad child, he adds, “Still gonna need you.”

Something breaks in Sam at the naked vulnerability of those words. “God, Dean…” He feels the fight leaving him rapidly.

They both sink to the floor, leaning against each other, holding onto each other. Tears are running down Sam’s face, mixing with the ones coming from Dean’s eyes as they kiss, Sam tasting Dean’s blood and tears on his tongue.

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” Sam whispers finally.

“Sorry for fucking everything up,” Dean whispers back, warm breath gusting over Sam’s face. “I hated it, hated myself for lying to you. But Sammy, I had to, I had to!”

Sam lets out a long, weary sigh. “Don’t expect me to forgive you or to say what you did was right. I’m never gonna do either.”

Dean nods. “That’s okay. I deserve that.” He’s tearing up again, big green eyes boring into Sam’s with pleading urgency. “But you have to know I wouldn’t have done it against your will. If you really wanted to die, you wouldn’t have said yes to me inside your head.”

Sam can’t help laughing. “That’s a joke, right? You know I could never say no to you.”

 

 

**November 2013**

Dean studies his reflection in the bathroom mirror, squinting in the bright light as he watches the anti-possession tattoo on his chest. It looks intact, but Dean wants to be sure. First thing in the morning, he’s going to the closest tattoo parlor to get another one. Probably somewhere Abaddon can’t reach it so easily.

“I hate that bitch,” he mutters.

“What?” Sam calls from the other room.

Dean walks over to him and leans over his shoulder to look at his laptop screen where Sam is already looking for tattoo shops in the vicinity of wherever the Hell they are right now.

“Here,” Sam points one finger at the screen. “That’s close enough.”

“You’re also getting another one,” Dean informs his brother. “And Cas, too.”

“She really spooked you this time, didn’t she?” Sam muses out loud as he quickly checks his emails before turning the computer off.

Snorting, Dean opens the fridge and pulls out two beers, sets one on the table in front of Sam and downs nearly half of his in one go. “Yeah,” he admits begrudgingly since Sam already knows that and denying it would only make him look silly.

Sam grabs his beer and takes a sip. “What exactly did she say to you?”

“The usual stuff,” Dean attempts to just wave it off and when Sam narrows his eyes threateningly, urging him to elaborate, he goes on, “nothing special, really.” And it’s true, Abaddon didn’t say anything particularly scary or new to him when she held him down and let her hands and eyes roam all over his body. He’d had all kinds of monsters touching him against his will before, so he should be used to it. But for some reason, Abaddon is always different, more personal, completely focused on him, making him feel used and dirty without even doing anything. “I don’t know, she just really got under my skin,” he shrugs finally.

“She seems to take personal interest in you,” Sam observes and Dean is thankful that the subject has changed, even if only slightly. “This was what, the fourth time?”

“Yeah. I really don’t get what she sees in me.” He takes a long pull of his beer. It’s really good that there are more of them in the fridge. “’The things I’ll do wearing this body,’ she says. ‘You and me, lover, we’ll make the world kneel before us.’”

Sam’s eyebrows rise in surprise and he chokes on his beer. “She really talks like that?”

“Such a drama queen, right?” The beer is gone and Dean gets himself another one and sprawls in a chair comfortably. “Thanks for saving my ass, by the way. That was some pretty good timing. And some really cool moves, too.”

“Lucky chance,” Sam grins, but his eyes are serious. He is well aware of the danger he managed to avert today. “I think she’s still a bit afraid of me, like she’s not really sure I’m not an angel anymore.”

Dean winces and expects yet another lecture on the topic of “you will never let an angel inside your brother again”, but it doesn’t come, so he just nods and does his best to look penitent.

“Stop with the groveling already,” Sam obviously sees right through Dean’s act, as always. “It’s so weird when you’re all apologetic. It’s like it’s not even you.”

“Does that mean I should stop making you breakfast, too?” That started as yet another of Dean’s ways of apologizing for Ezekiel, but he actually enjoys doing it. The kitchen at the bunker is spacious and Dean keeps it well-stacked so he can experiment with different recipes. So far, most of them were a success with his guests. “Or giving you backrubs?”

“No way,” Sam says quickly, face serious but eyes laughing. “Actually,” he drawls as he throws his hands in the air and stretches languidly, muscles bulging under his clothes, “I could use a backrub right now.”

“You mean the normal kind or the one that leads to sex?”

Sam gives him a “come on, Dean” look.

Dean feels himself grin as his heart picks up speed in excitement. “Right.”

 

**December 2013**

Sam sinks onto his bed with an exasperated sigh. “Well, that was a bust.”

“You shouldn’t lose hope.”

“I’m not losing hope. I’m just tired.”

Castiel settles himself on a chair, shifting around a bit until he’s comfortable. Even after all these months, Sam still can’t get used to Cas’s new, human body language. “We will find a way to help Dean,” he says, sounding convinced.

“Yeah.”

Cas fidgets around, looking at the carpet. “I am sorry, you know. For what happened.”

“Cas–“

The fallen angel hangs his head. “I know it was my fault.”

Rationally, Sam knows that’s not true. What happened to Dean was a perfectly normal accident, one like countless others that happened to them while hunting over the years. Only this time, the accident cost Dean his right arm, cut away right under the shoulder by a vengeful spirit’s blade.

“I should’ve been faster, more careful,” Castiel says, still not meeting Sam’s eyes, and Sam is grateful for that because Cas might see the blame and anger there. “He took the blow for me.”

“Cas, just stop. Please.” Sam can’t listen to that right now, he can’t stand the guilt in Castiel’s demeanor because can’t offer him forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“I will do anything in my power to fix the damage I’ve caused,” Cas promises firmly, finally looking up. He looks gaunt, with black rings under his eyes and several days’ worth of stubble darkening his face. “I will keep looking for angels willing to help Dean. They can’t all be dead.”

But with their luck, they can. “Thanks, Cas,” Sam mumbles anyway, not wanting to add to Castiel’s suffering no matter how pissed he is at him right now.

It’s irrational, this anger bordering on hate he feels towards Cas. It’s not like the fallen angel intended for Dean to get hurt. Sam knows if Cas could give his life to heal Dean, he would. But that’s not good enough.

Sam also feels angry at Dean, even though he knows this is even more unfair. He just wishes Dean would stop being this self-sacrificing martyr and took care of himself for once. The way he always puts others before himself always gets him hurt. And Dean getting hurt means Sam is hurting, too.

But that’s just how Dean works; he always takes in strays, always protects the ones who need his help. Even though he’s been hurt so many times it would be understandable if he just closed off completely, he never does; instead offering his heart and opening his arms to anyone who needs a friend. It’s like he’s being a professional older brother, always comforting and supportive. To Kevin, to Charlie, to Cas, to Krissy and her band of occasional hunters. It’s like Dean can’t help it, like it’s who he is, what gives him purpose, what makes him happy.

Even if it makes both Sam and Cas miserable. Sam because he hates to see his brother hurt and Cas because he feels unworthy of Dean’s sacrifice.

Ironically, the only one who’s okay about it all is Dean himself, who is absolutely sure Cas was worth it and repeats often that he’d do it again because Cas is family and he needs Cas to be safe.

Sam snorts and shakes his head at the memory of Dean sitting in the hospital, amputated arm bandaged, looking small and pale in the hospital gown, shouting at Cas to stop being a wussy about this, it’s not like losing one arm means the end of the world.

“What is so amusing?” Castiel asks, frowning, looking almost offended.

Sam looks at him. “Remember how Dean yelled at you at the hospital?”

Cas nods and a sad smile appears on his lips. “How could I forget?”

“Stupid son of a bitch,” Sam laughs shortly.

“Indeed,” Cas agrees.

Suddenly the silence between them isn’t as cold and distant as it was just a while ago, filled instead with their love for Dean and their determination to help him.

“Those two hands have taken care of me since I was a baby, ever since he carried me out of that fire,” Sam says, not sure why he wants to, but he does. Cas watches him attentively. “He bathed me. Held me at night when I’d cry. He cooked for me.”

“Yes, I can imagine that,” Cas nods politely.

“There was this one time,” an old memory comes to Sam’s mind, bringing a melancholic smile to his lips, “it was soon after Jessica died, when I started hunting again. We were in the North Carolina woods, tracking this weird venomous snake monster. It attacked me and paralyzed me, then Dean scared it away. We were in the middle of nowhere, the Impala parked at the edge of the forest, and he carried me all the way to the car.” He can still remember seeing the world upside down, swaying rhythmically as Dean carried him in a fireman’s grip. “I kept telling him to leave me there and go hunt the thing down. You know what he did? He knocked me out so I’d shut up.”

“That sounds very much like him,” Cas nods again. “He almost had to resort to similar means when we were in Purgatory and I was reluctant to go with him and Benny.”

“He’s just so mulish sometimes, you know,” Sam grimaces and his hands curl into fists unwittingly. “Doesn’t take no for an answer, has to do things his way. It’s…”

“…exceedingly frustrating,” Cas finished knowingly. “I have on several occasions caught myself thinking about throttling him.”

“Yeah,” Sam smiles fondly. “Dean has that effect on people.”

Sam’s phone vibrates in his pocket and he looks at the caller ID. “It’s Dean,” he tells Cas and answers the phone. “Dean?”

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean sounds normal, happy to hear him. “How you two doin’?”

Sam grimaces, hating to be the one bearing bad news. “Sorry, Dean, no luck. Those angels were already serving Bartholomew. We had to kill them.”

A brief moment of silence, then a deep breath. “Alright, fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Dean, we’ll keep looking–“

“Goddammit, Sam! You’ve been looking for help for weeks and nothing’s come up. You can’t fix it, okay? Just accept it already.”

“I’ll never accept that,” Sam growls fiercely.

“Well, I already have. And I’m telling you, man, I’m okay.” It's ridiculous, Dean is comforting Sam when it should be the other way around, for God's sake, Dean is the one who just lost one arm! "It's all okay."

“Oh really.” Sam can’t keep the irony out of his voice.

“Hell yeah! It’s not… it’s not easy, but I’m gonna make it." In his mind, Sam can practically see the hard, determined line of Dean's mouth. "And I’m gonna be able to hunt again.”

“You gotta be kidding me!” He must look pretty crazy right now because Cas is watching him mistrustfully like he's worried Sam might go nuts.

“Sam, come on! It’s not impossible!” Dean sounds like he’s getting worked up now. “I tried sparring with Kevin today and–“

Sam nearly jumps out of his skin. “Woah, wait! Is that really smart?”

“Shut up and listen. Kevin actually kicked my ass 'cause my balance is totally off. It’s gonna take some time getting used to it.” Dean’s tone gets frustrated, but then he clears his throat and when he speaks the next words, he’s all Mr. Positive again. “But it is doable, Sammy. You ever heard about Nick Newell? He’s a MMA fighter, undefeated so far, and he only has one arm. He’s pretty epic. If he can pull it off, then so can I.”

Sam can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Dean, you can’t be serious about this.”

“Why not?” Sharp words, angry. “Am I just supposed to sit on my ass uselessly and wait till I die of old age? No way. You know what hunting means to me, Sam. It’s who I am. I’m not gonna let that be taken away from me, you understand?” Dean is almost shouting now.

Wincing, Sam doesn’t know what to say.

“You understand?” Comes Dean’s voice again, softer this time, but still very resolute.

“Yeah, I understand.”

“And stop fretting, I’m being careful,” the tone is reconciliatory now. “I mostly concentrate on shooting for now, figured that would be easier. And it really isn’t that difficult. I changed the safety on my Colt from right-handed to ambi so I can handle it better.” A satisfied chuckle. “I’m actually pretty good at it already. Bet I could take you in a gunfight.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“You doubting my marksmanship skills? Come back home, little brother, and I’ll kick your ass!”

“I’ll kick yours.”

“Fine, I'll let you kick my ass if it means you'll finally come back,” Dean sighs theatrically before his tone gets more serious, almost wistful. “I mean it, Sammy. I miss you. Come back home.”

“Soon. Just one more try.”

“But–“

“Goodnight, Dean.”

Cas stands up. “Tell him I said hello.”

“Is that Cas?” Dean sounds excited. “Hand him over!”

“He wants to talk with you,” Sam hands the phone to Cas who puts it to his ear with a worried “Dean?”

Sam can’t make out the words Dean’s saying, but it must be something funny because Cas is smiling as he listens and answers with an occasional “Yes, Dean” or “Of course”. After a while, he hands the phone back to Sam and takes a Snickers out of his backpack, unpacking it.

“Sammy, grab that blue-eyed guy and get your asses over here, okay?" It's like Dean is giving Sam an order. "I wanna see you two again. And I miss my Baby.”

Sam’s throat constricts with a new wave of sorrow. Dean will probably never get to drive the Impala again.

“Sam? You there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. And we’ll get home soon. Promise.”

“Alright. Be safe.”

“Okay. You too.”

Sam hangs up and throws the phone onto his bed, feeling drained.

Castiel steps up to him, looking all solemn and serious, and if he wasn’t chewing on a Snickers – he’s developed quite the sweet tooth – he might still pass for his old angelic self. “Dean will get through this, Sam. I am certain of that. He is the most resilient man I have ever known.”

Sam can’t really argue with that, so he just nods dumbly.

“There were times when I didn’t think he would get over the horrible things that kept happening to him,” Cas goes on, expression darkening at the unpleasant memories. “When I thought he was only a wreck of his former self, damaged beyond repair, pushed beyond his breaking point. But he always pulled through, and came back stronger.”

“Yeah.”

“And so have you, Sam,” Cas adds, surprising him. “You are both incredibly strong, and most so when you stand together. Maybe it really is time for you to come back to Dean.”

Sam bristles. "So now you're suddenly saying we should give it up?"

"Not at all. I am merely saying that Dean is accepting his new condition, learning to live with it. He's adapting." Cas frowns like he's thinking about how to best phrase his thoughts. "He refuses to see himself as damaged, disabled. We should be supporting him in that, not undermine his determination."

"We're not undermining anything," Sam mutters morosely.

"Not deliberately, of course," the fallen angel agrees. "But our refusal to accept what happened to Dean might be perceived as exactly that. It might seem like we think Dean is useless, a liability."

It's actually making sense and Sam hangs his head in shame. This is so fucking hard.

"What happened to Dean is most regrettable, but he is dealing with it admirably well. He refused to become a victim of this unfortunate situation and instead he concentrates on doing what he does best, which is helping others. We should encourage him in that effort."

"You seem to know awfully lot about this sort of stuff," Sam blurts out and immediately realizes what a stupid thing he just said. Dean only lost one limb, but Cas lost his Grace. "Shit, sorry," he starts apologizing quickly. "Sometimes my brain just goes missing."

But Castiel doesn't look angry or offended, he just gives Sam one of those patented tranquile looks. Sam used to think that expression was a part of being an angel, but Cas managed to retain that calmness even as a human, so it probably must be a character trait. "I have learned to live with a great loss, Sam. And so will Dean."

Sam nods meekly, grateful for Castiel's easy forgiveness, wishing he could also cope with things as easily. “I hope you're right. And I'm gonna take what you said to me to heart."

“Very well then.” Cas resumes eating his Snickers and goes back to his chair. “If the next angel we find doesn’t want to help, then you’ll go home and I’ll keep looking alone.”

Sam starts nodding, then remembers what Dean told him. “He said we should both come home. And I’m not letting you go looking for help alone anyway. Dean would kill me if anything happened to you.”

Castiel heaves a sigh. “Then I’ll have to go with you.”

“The things he makes us do, right?” Sam kicks off his boots and stretches comfortably on his bed. “I’m gonna take a nap.” His eyes are already closing when he hears Cas clear his throat. “Yeah, what's up?”

Cas squirms sheepishly, looking a bit embarrassed. “Would you mind if I turned the TV on? There is a documentary about bees that I would–“

“No problem,” Sam waves one hand generously, eyes already closing again. “I spent most of my life with Dean, remember? I could probably fall asleep with _Alien_ on.”

“ _Alien_?”

“Ask Dean,” Sam mumbles and falls asleep with some entomologist talking about bee hives in the background.

 

 

**March 2014**

The motel only had rooms with two single beds left and both Sam and Dean are tired and could probably use the comfort of space, but they decide to share one bed anyway.

It seems like Dean is having second thoughts about it, though. “I miss our bed at the bunker,” he grumbles finally, trying to turn from one side to the other and bumping into Sam in the process. “This one is stupid.”

“Then move to the other one,” Sam suggests sweetly and almost gets an elbow in the eye as Dean keeps moving around. “Come on, Dean, stop hitting me!”

Dean finally settles on his left side, facing away from Sam who presses against him from behind. “I hate this bed. It’s too small, can’t wiggle in here.”

“Sure you can wiggle, Dean. Please do.” Sam presses his half-hard cock against Dean’s ass suggestively.

Dean swats at him sleepily with his one hand. “Shut up, bitch. I wanna sleep.”

“What’s wrong with you, getting old?”

Huffing angrily, Dean turns again so he can glare at Sam. “Haven’t exactly gotten much sleep these past few nights, you know, what with all the planning and strategizing.”

“Right. Sorry.” Sam would like to keep teasing his brother, but Dean is right, he deserves some rest. Especially since once again, his brilliant mind came up with an unorthodox plan that managed to get them rid of Bartholomew for good. Without their leader, the other angels from his group scattered, no longer posing a threat.

A satisfied smile is tugging at Dean’s lips and his eyes are sparkling mischievously. “Seeing Bart die really made my day. That slimy bastard made my skin crawl.”

“Same here,” Sam agrees sincerely. “And I’m glad Cas got to be the one to gank him. I think it really helped his self-esteem.”

Dean’s smile turns more serious. “It’s awesome that things are finally good again between you and Cas. I hated the looks you kept giving him.”

Softly, Sam touches the short stump of Dean’s right arm. “You know it was because of this, right?”

“Yeah.” Dean doesn’t move away from Sam’s touch now, comfortable with Sam touching him there. He wasn’t okay with it right from the beginning, though, it took him some time to accept that Sam didn’t find it disgusting or depressing or whatever it was he thought.

“I figured since you were okay with it, so should I,” Sam says finally, although he’s making it simpler than it really is.

“That’s right, Sammy. Follow the example of your older brother and everything’s gonna be just good.”

“I find that statement highly doubtful,” Sam can’t help himself, this is an opportunity he couldn’t possibly miss. “How about that waitress in Tampa, huh? Or that Thai restaurant in Billings? You were on water and crackers for a whole week after that.”

“Go on, just laugh,” Dean mutters, smiling under his breath. “At least you won’t repeat the same mistakes. You should be grateful. And now let me sleep.” He gives Sam a goodnight kiss and turns away from him again, spooned by Sam’s larger body. “And stop poking my ass with that thing already.”

“I can’t help it!” Sam really, really can’t. Dean is warm and content and right next to him and Sam is still buzzing with pent-up energy from today’s victory.

“Just take care of it and let me sleep,” Dean mumbles, voice heavy with sleep.

“You’re such a romantic,” Sam remarks but decides that Dean might be right. He’s not going to relax until he releases some of his energy and a quick hand job should help with that. He turns to his back and sneaks one hand under the covers to wrap it around his cock with a satisfied moan.

“And keep the noise down,” comes Dean’s voice again.

Sam rolls his eyes at that and tries to be subtle about what he’s doing, swallowing moans and breathing as evenly as he can.

“Dammit, Sam!” Dean turns around again, looking pissed. “Why do you do that to me?”

“Do what?”

“Do this,” Dean grabs Sam’s free hands and leads it until it’s placed over Dean’s crotch where Dean’s cock stands hard and interested. “And now I can’t sleep either.”

 

 

**April 2014**

Sam rubs at his eyes, closing them for a few moments to give them some rest. The screen of his laptop is much more eyes-friendly than those huge old PC screens he remembers from doing research when he was younger, but still it’s no miracle.

“So, I went through the local police records for the past five years,” he says when he refocuses his eyes back on the text on the screen. “Just to see how many of these murders actually happened. But it seems like they really started three months ago.”

The only reply he gets from Dean who is doing his workout routine behind him is a low grunt, but that’s to be expected, so he continues, “In all these murders, the coroner’s report says that the heart was missing. I think it’s pretty safe to say we’re dealing with a werewolf.”

Another grunt, sharp breathing and the occasional sound of joints popping.

“I expected more excitement from you,” Sam starts to tease, but when he turns around to look at his brother, his jaw drops and all rational thoughts go right out the window. “Uh,” he says.

Of course, Sam knew that Dean’s been working out extra hard ever since he lost his arm, trying to compensate for the missing limb with more strength, more agility, more stamina. He’s been pushing himself harder than ever, really. But this? Dean doing one-armed push-ups with this kind of ease? So fucking _hot_.

He vaguely remembers wanting to talk about something, possibly case-related, but he realizes he could just sit here in silence and watching Dean instead. No contest.

He can’t help feeling a bit disappointed when Dean stops and stands up, but the situation improves greatly again when Dean pulls of his sweat-soaked t-shirt.

Dean grabs a bottle of water from his bed and drinks, throat working as he swallows, body bent backwards and showing off the clearly defined muscles under glistening skin. It’s a pretty straightforward way of seducing Sam, but Sam is absolutely fine with that. “Not exactly subtle, Dean,” he comments with a smirk.

Screwing the top on the bottle, Dean’s brows scrunch together and he looks at Sam, confused. “What?” He throws the bottle back onto his bed and starts toward the bathroom. “Anyway, good job with the werewolf, Sammy. Just let me get a quick shower and we can go work the case.” The bathroom door is slammed shut behind him.

Now it’s Sam’s turn to frown in confusion. “What?”

*

Dean steps out of the bathroom five minutes later, dressed only in boxers. He throws a quick look in Sam’s direction before he moves toward the suit waiting on his bed. “Come on, Sammy. We don’t have much time. Full moon’s tomorrow, we gotta visit all the victims’ families today, figure out who the big bad wolf is.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Sam nods and gets up from his chair to change into his own suit, similarly laid out on his bed. “You have a main suspect?”

“Not yet,” Dean answers. “But man, I’m real glad we took this case.”

Sam smiles softly as he buttons up his white shirt. “Really?”

“You kidding me? This is just like the old times!” And that’s the excitement Sam was waiting for, right there. “You, me, fake FBI badges, with Baby on the road…”

“Well, until Cas and Kevin figure out that spell, there’s not much else for us to do,” Sam pauses so he can concentrate on tying his tie, then walks to the bathroom to check the knot in the mirror. “We’re more useful here, helping people, than back at the bunker where all you do is stand behind Kevin’s back and ask ‘Are you done yet?’.”

“Hey, I don’t do that!” Comes the offended reply. “And come over here, I need help.”

“Sure.”

Dean is standing in the middle of the room, suit pants and shirt on, shoes tied, but he’s holding his tie in one hand, looking frustrated. “Still can’t do this.”

Sam takes the tie and wraps it around Dean’s neck. “I got it,” he whispers as his fingers do a quick job of it. “There, all done.”

“Thanks,” Dean tilts his head up and stands on tiptoes to kiss Sam gently.

“No, wait–“ Sam pushes him away and steps back. “You can’t do this to me, Dean. We gotta go.”

A smile appears on Dean’s face, crinkling the skin around his eyes. “Alright, agent… What’s your name again?”

Sam fishes out the fake badge from the breast pocket of his suit and flips it open. “Davis. You?”

“Gimme a minute.” Dean pulls out his ID and reads it, scowling. “Wilson. I liked my aliases much better. Kevin’s are boring.”

“They’re also much less conspicuous,” Sam laughs, although he kind of agrees with Dean. “Some of yours were pretty outrageous. ‘Stark and Banner’, ‘Baggins and Gamgee’, ‘Young and Young’…”

Dean pauses in the middle of getting into his suit jacket to smack Sam on the head. “No dissing on AC/DC!”

Sam huffs. “Thanks for ruining my hair, jackass!” He rushes to the bathroom to examine the damage in the mirror.

“When are you finally gonna let me cut it?” Dean asks hopefully when Sam comes back.

“Never.” Sam grabs the keys to the Impala and heads for the door.

Dean follows him, whining, “Come on! How about letting me do it as a gift for my birthday this year?”

“No.”

“Okay, when I’m forty.”

“No.”

“Fifty? You’ll be almost forty-six; your hair will look stupid anyway by then.”

“Dean, just give it up,” Sam shakes his head, unable to keep a smile off his face as he holds the door open for his brother.

Dean throws him an indignant look. “I’ll never give up fighting the good fight. And this,” he points at Sam’s hair, probably trying to ruin it again, so Sam moves out of his reach, “this is one of the biggest threats the world has ever seen.”

Shaking his head in disbelief but still smiling, Sam follows his brother out of the room.

 

 

**May 28, 2014**

“Winchesters! We know you’re in there!”

“Look, they’re here finally,” Dean peeks through the drawn curtains and curses when he sees their numbers.

“Let me see,” Sam pushes him out of the way to take a look himself. “Oh. I didn’t expect so many of them.”

There are at least forty demons standing outside, waiting in the motel parking lot, and there’s no telling how many more are hidden somewhere out of sight.

“Hey, Moose! Squirrel!” Yeah, that’s Crowley, who’s running free again. "Come outside or we'll go grab ourselves some hostages!"

“We meet again, lover!” And that’s Abaddon, united with the former King of Hell on their common goal of finally getting rid of the Winchester brothers for good. It kind of makes Dean proud, knowing that they are such a big pain in the demons’ asses that the two most dangerous demons are working together against them.

"I promise we’ll make it quick, boys!” Crowley shouts and Dean actually believes him. They’ve given him too much trouble already and Crowley’s not going to want to risk them getting away again. He might _wish_ he could lock them up somewhere and make them scream for him, but he’s not going to.

Throwing a quick glance at his watch, Dean sees that there’s still some time left. They can’t go out yet.

“Five minutes, okay?” Dean shouts loud enough to be heard outside. It’s good they knew the demons were coming so they had time to evacuate the rest of the motel guests and staff.

“Fine, we’ll give you five minutes,” Abaddon concedes. “Consider it your dying wish.”

“Bitch,” Dean mutters as he lets the curtain fall closed again and stomps away from the window, closely followed by Sam.

They look at each other, strangely calm, at peace.

“I think the plan’s really working,” Sam says quietly, sounding like he can’t quite believe it.

Dean understands that notion, but he gives his brother his usual self-confident smirk anyway. “Sure it is. In five minutes, Hell’s closing for business.”

The plan was a joint effort this time, devised at the bunker by Sam, Dean, Castiel, but mostly by Kevin who – with some help from Cas and his fallen angels friends – found a way to close the gates of Hell without having to undergo the Trials. The required spell turned out to be massive though, like continental scale massive, and it would take some time. Any higher demon would sense even the preparations for the spell from thousands of miles away.

That’s where the Winchesters come in, and yeah, that part of the plan was Dean’s idea. Him – and Sam, because the son of a bitch insisted – would serve as decoy, openly preparing to cast the spell and drawing the demons’ attention to themselves while the real spell would be cast far, far away.

“Once we do this, we’re gonna be legends,” Dean grins at Sam. He’s feeling good, really good today.

“No, Kevin is gonna be a legend,” Sam corrects him, but that’s not going to spoil Dean’s fun. “We’re gonna be dead.”

“But legends!” Dean insists and chuckles when Sam rolls his eyes and nods with a resigned “Yes, Dean, we’re going to be legends.”

“I hope we really stay dead this time, though,” Dean mutters, frowning. “I feel like it kind of ruins the heroic death stunt when we keep coming back. I was reading through some discussions on the _Supernatural_ forums, there were fans complaining that they don’t even cry anymore when we die because they just know we’ll be back again. Man, that’s just wrong.”

Sam rolls his eyes again. “Just shut up, Dean.”

“Okay.” He glances at his watch again. “Three minutes.” He winks at Sam. “Time for a last hug?”

Instead of replying, Sam pulls Dean into his arms and Dean reciprocates by wrapping his only arm around Sam in return. Several moments later, Dean raises his face towards Sam’s and Sam bends down until their lips meet. The kiss is sweet and bitter at the same time and as their tongues dance, Dean finally realizes that they’re going to _die_. He clutches onto Sam more tightly, wishing he still had both arms so he could do it properly.

Too soon, they have to pull apart.

“One minute,” Dean says, his voice suddenly shaking despite his best efforts. He grabs his Colt loaded with Devil’s Trap bullets and next to him, Sam does the same.

No way in Hell they’re going down without a fight.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

“See you on the other side, Sammy.”

They kick out the doors and head into the night for their last stand.

 

The End


End file.
